


Awake and Alive

by LadyMistocleese



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M, My First Fanfic, Slow Build, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-19 09:07:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMistocleese/pseuds/LadyMistocleese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate origin story where a female mage Lavellan is a city elf who grew up in Denerim's Alienage until, at the age of sixteen, she was sold into slavery just days before the Hero of Ferelden marched into that sick house and put a stop to the practice. Owned by one of the notorious Venatori for the past ten years, she was present at the conclave as her master's hand servant.</p><p>This is the story of how Ariel Lavellan came to find duty more binding than any chains. It is the story of how a liberated slave became friends with the son of a magister,  and a life-long apostate came to love a former Templar with all of her being. Along the way, perhaps she and her friends will help guide a broken world down its first steps toward healing itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or any of the wonderful characters or creatures that inhabit it. I wish I did, though, because that'd be pretty awesome. None of this story was written for profit.
> 
> NEW NOTES: 6/3/15: I haven't forgotten this, no worries! I am recovering from being sick so writing is a bit slow going at the moment. I am going to buy World of Thedas Vol. 2 soon, as well. Hopefully it'll give me some new insight on all these lovely characters! Stand by. I will do my best to have the next chapter up this weekend or early next week at the latest.
> 
> NEWER NEW NOTES: 1/7/2017: Whoooo boy! Life has been a whirlwind. I have, since my last update, become a home owner, birthed a beautiful baby boy (9 months old now, holy cow!) and been on a nonstop whirlwind of work, marriage, parenting, and trying to figure out where I can juggle in school (nobody wants to be a receptionist forever, right?) I have also been working on a book series of my own; a steampunk fantasy with a magic system founded in the traditions of alchemy. With all of that, I did not want to give this project my distracted effort. Lately, though, I have felt the Thedas twinge. It's like being homesick. So, I am hoping to take this back up, dust it off, and give it the continuance it deserves.

Vellariel stared at the box that the serving girl had dropped in her haste to get to the door without really seeing it. The elf, maybe a year or two younger than herself, had been all but crawling, apologies falling from her lips as if she expected to be beaten for whatever offense she thought she had committed. It made Ariel feel uneasy. Usually, she was the one groveling in hopes of avoiding the lash. Fereldens were supposed to treat their servants better. At least, that was what the slaves in Tevinter believed. Maybe they had been wrong all along. Perhaps elves were simply mistreated everywhere.

Pushing the thick blanket aside, Ariel forced herself to stand, and had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. Whatever Fereldens thought of her people, the ogre certainly hadn’t been discriminating in its violence. Elf, human, dwarf, it hadn’t cared. Every one of them might as well have been ragdolls, the way it had tossed them around. She supposed she could count herself lucky to have survived long enough to seal the Breech. It was hard, though, to feel gratitude when she felt as though every inch of her was one big bruise. 

She knelt and lifted the lid of the little box, and felt her eyebrows lift. Apparently, someone had anticipated her pain, if the sprig of Elfroot that she found was any indication. Pulling one of the soft green leaves from the stem, she put it between her teeth and chewed. She didn’t realize until she opened the chest on one side of the room that someone had relieved her of the filthy, tattered mercenary garb that she had been wearing for what felt like days. Ariel was only too grateful to pull on the clean garments. The stitching indicated that someone had made quick work of altering them to fit her, but the material was of good quality and helped to keep the unforgiving cold of the Frostbacks at bay. 

The sun, when she first stepped out of the tiny, one-room cabin, was blinding as it reflected off the snow, drowning her vision in white light for a moment before her eyes adjusted. Instantly, she found herself wishing that they hadn’t. In spite of the cold, her palms felt sweaty. She had never had so many eyes on her in all her life. A murmur swept through the crowd and soon, the scant few people who hadn’t looked up when she’d stepped out into the light were turning in her direction. She didn’t recognize any of them, but they certainly seemed to know her. She heard her name being murmured from more than a couple mouths as she lifted her chin and forced herself to walk the path to the chantry, her cheeks hot. 

Raised voices greeted her upon her entry, and she wondered if it might have been wiser to remain asleep in that little cabin. The serving girl had said that the Breech was no longer spreading, that people were grateful for her involvement. Those heated tones were far from pleased, however. They were angry. Her heart clenched with fear. Would they chain her up again? Throw her in some windowless dungeon in this cold, harsh place, never to be seen again? Perhaps they would ship her back to Tevinter, to be sold and traded like chattel. _I’ll die first,_ she thought fiercely. Ten years, she’d been a slave, beaten, abused, without any reason to hope for her freedom. Still, she could recognize a blessing when it stared her in the face. If she had to run for the rest of her life to keep from finding herself crushed under the oppressive boots of the Imperium, then that was what she would do. 

It took everything she had not to lash out at the Grand Chancellor when he demanded that she be chained. She could feel the magic crackling at her fingertips, ready to be hurled if he took so much as a step in her direction. Only Cassandra’s unrelenting presence kept the peace from being shattered. Her expression was as cold as the icy breeze outside when she slammed that thick book down on the table. The cleric’s eyes bulged and he went red in the face. Ariel found herself looking at his ears, wondering when the steam would begin to rise from them. He turned to storm out of the room and she had to scramble to get out of his way lest he walk right over her. She wished she could follow him. She had never heard of ‘The Inquisition of Old,’ but she was perceptive enough to realize that this new Inquisition would likely turn her world upside down. She wondered if she would ever be able to right it again. 

At least they weren’t still accusing her of mass murder anymore. Thank the Maker for small blessings. 


	2. Chapter 2

“It is aptly named, is it not?”

In her surprise, Ariel nearly fell off the low wall upon which she was perched. A shadow fell over, crowned by distinctive pointed ears. She sent a glower over her shoulder. Solas smiled back at her serenely, his eyes glittering as he leaned on his staff. 

“What do you mean?” She asked when she had convinced her heart to climb out of her throat and take up its proper place in her chest again. 

“The Anchor; it tethers you to the Inquisition quite effectively.” Balancing his staff on his knees, Solas moved to sit down beside her. Her eyes drifted back down to her hand. Even now, the faint green glow was apparent. 

“Was that your intention when you named it?” 

He chuckled. “Alas, my precognitive abilities don’t stretch quite that far. Were that the case, the destruction of the Conclave might have been preventable.” 

Ariel pondered that possibility uncomfortably. If the explosion had been preventable then the Divine might still be alive… so might her former master. The Inquisition would still have been declared, but she would likely be on her way back to Tevinter by now. It felt wrong, cruel, to be grateful for a disaster that had cost so many lives. 

“Do you think the Inquisition will really make a difference?” The very thought of it was daunting. The world was intent on tearing itself apart and they were but a handful of half-trained soldiers, some poor merchants, and a few pilgrims. “It seems impossible.”

From his spot beside the fire just below where the two elves were sitting, Varric gave a laugh. “I’ll let you in on a secret; all heroes have that thought at one point or another.” 

“Do they?” she mused, “They always seem to leave that part out of the stories.”

“It’s not a big selling point for the publishers for a hero to be anything but heroic at all times. But, trust me kid, they get scared and have doubts just like the rest of us,” the dwarf said with a shrug. 

Ariel gave a small smile, “Next you’ll expect me to believe that they fart, as well.” She paused, then added hastily; “And I’m not a hero.”

Varric’s eyes twinkled warmly. “Yeah. They all say that, too.” She made a face at him.

“Some of the best and the brightest minds are at the head of the Inquisition. Others will follow as the word spreads.” Solas remarked. “The Herald of Andraste will attract allies as surely as she attracts enemies.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said instinctively, shifting a little as if she could somehow shrug off the title. “I’m not anyone’s herald, least of all Andraste.” 

“A liberated retainer of Tevinter,” the apostate remarked without mercy, “People will believe that you are Andraste herself, reborn in our hour of need.” 

“Seal the Breech, close the Rifts, slay all the demons… lead another Exalted March. It’s all in a day’s work, really,” she snorted with a roll of her eyes. 

“No pressure at all,” Varric added. “Let’s hope the masses don’t try to light a fire under your ass, too.” 

“There are already some who’d like to, I’m sure.” And if they didn’t, the demons surely would. She sighed, making a fist of her left hand before letting it drop into her lap. This certainly wasn’t what she had imagined freedom might be like. Anchor indeed. Solas was right, it held her tighter than chains ever could. At least it wasn’t killing her any longer. At least, not as far as anyone could tell. It was a small comfort. Just one less thing that wanted to mount her head on the wall. 

A dark shape flew over the wall that surrounded the village of Haven; one of Leliana’s messenger birds. Perhaps her scouts had managed to secure a foothold in the Hinterlands. Ariel was certain that someone would come to retrieve her if she was needed. 

Bracing her hands beside her legs, she pushed off the wall and very nearly stumbled into the fire. _They won’t have to go to the trouble of burning me for a heretic if I light myself on fire first,_ she thought as Varric reached out to help steady her. Had she been sitting there for so long that her feet had fallen asleep on her? Gritting her teeth to keep from hissing, she stamped feeling back into her extremities. Considering how cold it was here, she supposed she should be grateful that her feet were the only things that had gone numb on her. 

Her wandering led her away from the chantry, out of the gates and down to the open space that was serving as both a camp and a training yard. It was loud, here, with men shouting instruction over the sound of clashing steel. The Commander paced through the ranks, hands folded over the pommel of his sword, sharp eyes ever watchful as they swept over the recruits. “You there,” he barked suddenly. “You’ve a shield in your hand. Block with it. If this man was your enemy, you’d be dead.” The afternoon sun glinted off his blonde hair as he shook his head, turning to the man at his side. “Lieutenant, don’t hold back. The recruits must prepare for a real fight. Not a practice one.” 

Slowly, unobtrusively, she wove her way through the clashing troops, coming to stand beside the Commander. She noticed, not for the first time, how tall he was, even for a human. He glanced her way, arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve received a number of recruits,” he told her in a voice that said he had known she was there from the start. Everyone seemed to be acutely aware of where she was, these days. It was unnerving. She’d spent the last decade doing her best to be invisible. 

“At least I got everyone’s attention,” she muttered when Cullen informed her that none of the men or women they had recruited had matched her entrance. Why was he telling her all of this? It wasn’t as though she had any real authority, yet he was speaking to her as though he were giving a report; as though her thoughts on the Inquisition forces held any weight. 

Cullen smirked, his appreciative gaze lingering on her face in a way that made her skin heat a little. “That you did. I was recruited into the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising – I saw firsthand the devastation it caused,” he continued, turning on his heel and striding through the lines of sparring partners. His long legs and brisk pace had Ariel trotting to keep up. She nearly ran into him when he paused to accept a report from one of Leliana’s scouts. “Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me the position, I left the Templars to join her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.”

“The Conclave destroyed. A giant hole in the sky – Things aren’t looking good,” it had to be doubly unsettling for the Inquisition’s leaders; for Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, and Cassandra. They, at least, were qualified for their positions. She on the other hand… well, her experience was limited, to say the least. Still, she was proud that her voice didn’t sound as uncertain as she actually felt. It wouldn’t do to show vulnerability to the former Templar, whether he was still with the Order or not. 

When she’d been a child in the alienage, she had cultivated an active fear of Templars; all apostates had to, if they hoped to survive. It was hard to reconcile the fearsome image of a mage-hunter with the man whom she had first met as he had all but carried one of his wounded men off the field of battle. There was no cruelty or hatred in the way he addressed her. In fact, his gaze was warm; far warmer than the harsh mountain air. She couldn’t imagine the term ‘knife-ear’ ever falling from those full lips. Lips… which were still moving, telling her of all the good that the Inquisition could do while the Chantry argued over who to give Divine Justinia’s hat over to. She flushed when she realized she had been staring at his mouth. 

What was he saying? “Forgive me. I doubt you came here for a lecture.” She hadn’t, but there was something melodic in the timbre of his deep voice that she enjoyed listening to. 

“No,” she agreed truthfully, “But if you have one prepared, I’d be happy to hear it.” 

His mouth twisted in that lopsided grin of his, the one that lifted the scarred side of his lips. He rumbled a low chuckle. “Another time perhaps,” he said warmly and she couldn’t help but return his smile. Perhaps, she thought as he cleared his throat, scrubbing one hand along the back of his neck, just perhaps there was a silver lining to this thundercloud situation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize these initial chapters are brief. I'm easing my way into it. I promise they will get longer and more eventful before too long. Thanks for bearing with me!

Ariel could not have been more grateful to see the familiar silhouette of Haven in the near distance. Soon she would get to climb off the horse and find her feet again. Master Dennet had graciously outfitted her entire party with mounts, though he would not send more until they met his demands. She was not adapting quickly to the new experience. In the past, she’d never had much opportunity to ride. She’d tended to her master’s horses, even slept in the stables a fair few times, but she hadn’t ever done any riding herself. She certainly hadn’t had the chance to pick up that particular habit. Now, after two days in the saddle, she couldn’t imagine why she had ever envied anyone on a horse. She felt… raw. And she had blisters in places that she hadn’t even realized she had places.

It had always looked so simple when she’d been a spectator. Sit in the saddle, don’t fall out, and spare your feet some abuse. Why hadn’t anybody warned her? In addition to feeling like she had been running her thighs over one of Harrit’s grinding stones, her chest felt… well, rather a lot like she thought one of those practice dummies that Cassandra was so keen on beating into the ground must feel. She didn’t have a particularly large chest but still… all that bouncing about when they traveled at a pace faster than a brisk walk had been merciless. And speaking of the Seeker… Ariel slanted a glance toward the dark haired Nevarran. She sat her saddle as if she had been born there, with no signs of discomfort at all. Meanwhile, Ariel found herself thinking that the large snow bank just to the side of the path looked like an awfully inviting place to sit. 

“I will inform the others that we’ve returned. They will be eager to read your report,” Cassandra said, sliding gracefully from her saddle. At least she had stopped smirking.

Ariel followed suit more clumsily. “Report?” she asked, hopping without dignity on one foot. The other seemed unwilling to dislodge from the stirrup. “What report?” Nobody had said anything to her about writing reports. 

“We all have to write them,” the Seeker said, handing her reins over to one of the stable hands. “It is best to do so when everything is still fresh. You’d be surprised how twisted and confused facts can get when you put them off.”

As if she had much of a clue as to what was going on half of the time to begin with. “But…” she protested, eagerly thristing the reins of the chestnut into the waiting hands of the stable boy. “Well, what do I put in it? Everything?” It would go on for pages and pages, if they wanted to know all that had happened. The few reports that she had been handed hadn’t been that long.

“Maybe leave out the bits that aren’t that important. They won’t need to know that you spent three hours tracking one ram only to have a deranged wolf steal it out from under you. Or that you nearly got trampled by a spooked druffalo.” Varric suggested as he stamped his booted feet, apparently in much the same condition as Ariel was, if the bow-legged way he was walking, gave any indication. His expression was neutral, save for the stern line of his thick brows. He had been, it seemed, even less enthusiastic than Ariel about mounting up. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember ever having seen a Child of the Stone on horseback before. He had bounced about behind Cassandra like a child’s rubber ball and paddle. Well, at least he didn’t have tits to worry about. Though, she supposed, now that she was thinking about balls… well he had reason to sit in the snow bank too, didn’t he? She hid her grin behind her choppy layers of brown hair, ducking her head and pretending to check the materials at her belt. 

Climbing the steps leading to the Chantry and the makeshift war room, Ariel was drawn from her reverie by the sound of several raised voices and, to her alarm, the steely ring of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. Her palms felt clammy when she realized that it was a mage and a Templar about to come to blows. Each had a cluster of fellows at his back. The tension crackled like electricity in the air. But, before disaster could strike, a familiar figure emerged, his lip curled in an uncanny likeness of the snarling leonine helm she had seen him wear on the field. His long legs ate up the space between himself and the commotion rapidly, then he was thrusting the two unsettled men away from each other. A sharp motion cut through any protest that either of them might want to make. 

They retreated but another figure emerged from the crowd that made Ariel want to cringe. And here, she had hoped the Grand Chancellor would have the decency to slink away and lick his wounds after Cassandra had, quite literally, thrown that book at him. Swallowing an exasperated groan, she approached. This Herald business was nonsense, but she couldn’t very well hide from it. Running was not an option that seemed available so she would have to grit her teeth and trudge through the muck. She could only hope there would be dry land to settle on the other side, when this was all over. If she survived that long.

Proper authority indeed. Demons were literally raining from the sky, and he wanted to harp on about whose toes were being stepped on. His precious Chantry had done such a good job, in the past, of maintaining order. The sneer on Cullen’s face reflected her disgust. “Remind me why you’re allowing the Chancellor to stay?” She asked, quite proud that she managed to unclench her jaw in order to get the words out. 

“Clearly, your Templar knows where to draw the line,” Roderick sniffed haughtily. _Her_ Templar. That sent an odd, frenetic sensation surging through her. Since when had this organization become hers? When was the last time that she had claimed ownership of _anything_? She didn’t want to own Cullen or anyone, for that matter. People were not meant to be possessions.

Cullen’s hands hovered near one hip, hesitated over the spot where his sword usually hung, and then crossed over his chest. He cut an intimidating figure, towering over the cleric, his chin parallel to the ground as he looked down his nose. “He’s toothless,” the former Templar sneered, effectively dismissing the Chancellor as unimportant, regardless of what the man thought of himself. He didn’t deny the possessive though. “There’s no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.” 

_And he runs, and runs, and runs some more,_ she thought wryly. It took effort to keep her shoulders from slumping. A precursor to Val Royeaux… she would likely have more luck facing off against the wolves again. At least they had made no pretense of pretending they weren’t rabid. 

Cullen turned on his heel, his back to Chancellor Roderick, whose jaw worked furiously without producing any sound at all. He was a man who was clearly used to being heeded. Lifting his arm, he motioned to her and she fell into step beside him. 

“We expected your return days ago, especially after Mother Giselle’s arrival,” Cullen said in a low voice, so as to keep what he said from echoing through the stone hall of the Chantry. 

“I apologize. There was more work to be done than we had expected,” For a moment, just one, she felt the instinctual urge to bow, or kneel, and ask forgiveness. _You are not a slave anymore, unless you insist like acting like one._ Still, it had taken many painful lessons over the years, before she had learned obedience. It would likely take just as long to break those habits now. Still, try as she might, she couldn’t find the anger in his voice. After all these years, she thought herself an expert at reading people. His face was a series of angles and shadows in the haunting candle light, but she couldn’t find a trace of the fury that he had turned on the two arguing men outside. 

He shook his head. The twinkling of hundreds of tiny fires seemed to send sparks through it. “No, don’t… you needn’t apologize. It’s just… are you alright?” The question surprised her. 

“I…” she began and paused. For some reason, the thought of lying to the Commander made her feel uneasy. But what could she say? _I’ve been someone’s property for so long that I don’t remember how to be anything else. I’m terrified by this mark on my hand, and by what it means. I don’t know if I can do this, but I know I have to anyway._ Instead, all she said was, “I nearly got trampled by a druffalo.”

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t that. His startled look melted into warm mirth and his booming laughter echoed through the Chantry’s great hall. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more of the back story while Ariel struggles to gain control of her magic. Information about Hedge magic can be found on the Dragon Age wiki.

A bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face and she frowned at the wood piled in the center of the ring of stones. A faint glowing ring, with its series of glyphs inside, glimmered to life occasionally. The logs did not ignite. Ariel edged closer, kneeling down and staring harder at the kindling, willing it to spark to life. Still, nothing happened.

“My dear, if you glare at it any harder, you are only going to age yourself prematurely and we can’t have that. The focus must come from within.” Vivienne’s voice, smooth as the white silk she wore, which somehow always managed to make the snow of Haven look dim in comparison, broke through what small amount of concentration Ariel had managed to achieve. She didn’t bother to ask why it was a problem if she gave herself wrinkles. How the First Enchanter managed to maintain her aloof elegance was beyond the elf. The Orlesian mage stood there, taller than most men, tall enough that she could have looked Cullen in the eye without effort, with her chin lifted. Her heavy lidded eyes watched Ariel. The only sign that she felt the chill in the air at all was the faint blush to her dusky cheeks. 

The barely there gleam of the glyph faded away, leaving behind a blackened outline. Vivienne gave a sigh but, beyond that, she painted a dispassionate picture. At least she managed never to give the appearance of impatience, though Ariel thought she must just be hiding it. They had been practicing her craft – if it could be called that – for hours now and they had been doing so regularly for days. With little result. Try as she might, Ariel just couldn’t cast a spell the way Vivienne kept trying to instruct her. For her, magic had never been a science; not like the First Enchanter seemed to discuss it. It was wild. Asking it to fit into the complicated ‘flows’ and ‘weaves’ that the Circle mage kept describing was like trying to control thunder.

“Try again. And do try not to be frustrated. Most mages begin this training as children, when they first join the Circle.”

Ariel sat back on her heels, pursing her lips and puffing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Believe it or not, that doesn’t give me much comfort.”

“Oh, my dear, I am not saying that you have less aptitude than a child. I am merely reminding you that you have a lifetime of bad habits to overcome, habits which the young ones do not have to wrestle with.”

That didn’t make her feel much better. She still didn’t quite understand what Vivienne was trying to teach her. Some small tricks that she had stolen from whichever Magister claimed ownership of her here and there, but most of that was beyond her as well. Most of what she did was instinctual, emotional. In the aftermath, she couldn’t have said how she did what she did. It just came to her and was gone just as quickly.

“I’ve done well enough in battle so far,” she reminded the taller woman kindly. 

Vivienne crossed her arms and gave her a look that reminded her of her mother’s expression when she had been young and had been caught at doing something the woman had disapproved of. “I have seen you use that staff of yours – which, by the way, is quite out of style – as a cudgel when your magic fails you. It is most unseemly, dear. The Herald of Andraste must present an air of grandeur and dignity. Bludgeoning a slaver when you have all of your raw talent is disgraceful.”

“But oh, so satisfying,” Ariel added wryly, not bothering to scold the older mage for calling her Herald. When the Vint had been baring down on her, she’d lost hold of that eerie, focused calm that sometimes took her in the heat of battle, that empty space wherein she had all the time in the world to think, where the magic obeyed her will. Instead, memory had overcome her sense, for a moment as panic had set in. All she had been able to think was that she would die before another Imperium dog got his hands on her. So, she had taken her staff in both hands and swung for all she was worth. Crude, perhaps, “And effective.” It had bought enough time for the mercenary chief, Iron Bull, to charge the man down and all but cleave him in two. Her stomach twisted at the memory.

Vivienne’s stony expression was cool, though she didn’t dignify Ariel’s response with scolding. Wincing apologetically, she held her hands up. “Alright, alright. Don’t scowl, you’ll only age yourself prematurely,” Vivienne’s nostril’s flared; all the indignation she would express. “I will try again, but I really feel like I’d have more success smashing my forehead through a brick wall.” 

“Wouldn’t recommend it, boss,” Iron Bull drawled lazily. He sat on the other side of their little fire, his back braced against one of the driftwood logs they had dragged ashore, a cask in one hand. “I’ve tried it myself once or twice. Humans are softer than Qunari and you elves are softer than that.”

Solas, leaning on his staff to one side, spoke up. “The Herald is a Hedge mage, Lady Vivienne. A talented one, to be sure, but after a lifetime of self-tutelage, it’s possible that she might never be able to master the ways of the Circle. It’s possible that doing so, even, would be to diminish her abilities.” 

Ariel looked out over the crashing waves of the Storm Coast. Hedge mage. That was a term she knew. There were Magisters who studied the ways of Hedge magic, or, “arcanist derangement;” magic left unchecked within a mage that, without learning proper spell craft, tended to manifest in unexpected ways. In spite of being an apostate her entire life, she’d never considered herself of any particular variety; not a Keeper or a Chasind wilder, certainly not a Hedge mage. Yet, after days of futility in these lessons, she was willing to believe it. 

“I am curious, dear Solas, how you would propose to teach her, given your own limited discipline,” There was still enough sunlight left to see her eyes flicker down pointedly toward the apostate’s coattails, where he had recently caught himself aflame in a somewhat… overzealous offensive attack. 

Solas, lifted one hand from his staff. A coil of flame twisted and wove between his fingers. “I would do no such thing, Enchanter,” though he used Vivienne’s name, his own gaze fixed on Ariel, as if he were speaking, in fact, to her. “I would, instead, encourage her to listen to her own instincts, and to follow them when they pulled her one way or another.” 

“Oh, how _delightful._ While we are at it, we may as well go tripping blindly through a cave full of giant spiders. At least, then, we won’t find ourselves at the mercy of a demon in control of our fate. No offense, my dear.” The last bit she added as an afterthought. She was speaking of the Anchor, Ariel knew. Were a demon to take hold of her body, it would also seize hold of the Anchor. It was a thought that turned her blood to ice. 

Ariel stood, eyes fixed on the sea. “You know, I worked magic before you came along to hold my hand… It might not always do what I want, when I want it to, but I have managed to avoid possession,” she looked at Vivienne. It took a lot to meet the woman’s intent gaze without wavering. “I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t _need_ you to hold my hand.” She paused. “Except for when we have to cross a broken bridge and the planks are too far apart.” 

Solas laid a hand on her shoulder, garnering her attention. “Indulge me. Tell me about the first time you remember casting.”

Her brows furrowed. She remembered the Fade from a very young age, though she couldn’t always be certain that what she recalled had been what had happened and not a very strange dream. That wasn’t what he had asked. Ariel closed her eyes. Her lips twitched. “My sister dropped my new shoes in the mud. The mud froze right over.”

“And another time, when you were a little older, perhaps?” Solas prompted. 

Frowning, she closed her eyes a bit tighter. “A shem… one of the magisters, struck her. Her nose was bleeding.”

“What did you do?” Gentler, now. 

A feral smile stretched across her face. “I lit his robes on fire.”

It was Varric who spoke up this time. “Do you know Threnn?”

“The quartermaster? We’ve met. Why?”

“She’s a big supporter of Loghain.”

Silence. Then...

The logs in the small ring of stones burst into flame. Ariel could only stare, unseeing. Her vision was red-washed and she didn’t even feel her nails biting in to her palms. There was a sound in her ear, like a feline’s low growl. 

“Impressive. How did you know that would work?” the Bull’s voice broke through the internal storm that was howling inside of her. 

“I knew a Tevinter slave, once… nothing pissed him off more than dealing with them or their supporters,” Varric’s voice. His hands, too, guiding her to sit down. “Easy, sweetheart, easy.” 

Ariel didn’t understand. She was back in that sick house, her chest aching with every wheezing breath, shivering violently in spite of the sheen of sweat that coated her body and soaked her bed clothes. Her sister, so small, even thinner than usual, trembled against her side. Others from the Alienage were gathered around her and strange men and women in robes paced between them, occasionally stopping to observe them more closely. 

One of them knelt before her, taking stock of her and her sister. Then they were trying to pull Kelsie away from her. Ariel held on to her tighter, more fiercely, lashing out with her feet to try and kick the human away. Instead, they caught her by her ankles and dragged her along as well, screaming hoarsely. She became dimly aware of the sound of sobbing, of shouting from barred wagons nearby. 

Loghain. All because of Loghain the Traitor. 

Ariel flinched, confused as someone shook her hard. What was that? Kelsie certainly didn’t have the strength to grip her shoulders so firmly. Then someone slapped her. It didn’t hurt, but the shock of the contact shattered the reverie. Shaking her head, she realized that she wasn’t in that stuffy old hospice, but outside, under a blanket of stars, near a musical shore. There was heat on the side of her face, and a brightness that made her eyes water. One of the tents was on fire. 

“I… I…” blinking rapidly, the confines of the memory fell away, leaving her shuddering on the Storm Coast once more. Vivienne made an intricate weave with her arms and staff. The burning tent was suddenly frozen over. The flames held out stubbornly, but they couldn’t last and licked out after a mment. Shit, had that been her tent? 

“Might I say, my dear…” the Enchanter began. A savage, animal bellow stopped her short, however. Ariel shot to her feet, legs still shaking. Behind them, coming down the hill, a dozen or more dark shapes were approaching at a rapid, no, a rabid pace. They were like nothing Ariel had ever seen, bipedal, some short, some tall, with no human resemblance but their shape. 

“Maker’s breath, what –“ she gasped. 

“Darkspawn,” someone – Varric… or was it Solas? – supplied. What were Darkspawn doing here? “Do you think you have enough anger left for this fight?” 

Ariel flipped her staff over her shoulder, holding it before her with both hands. The image of the sick house flared up in her mind again, just briefly, before it faded. She bared her teeth in a feral smile. Were it not for the Blight, the Darkspawn invasion, Loghain might never have had the chance to deal all the harm that he had. 

“Oh yes,” she heard herself croon. She lifted one hand and watched in satisfaction as a blazing red circle appeared beneath a cluster of three of the approaching Darkspawn. They howled as they went up in flames. “Yes, I think I do.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought that this happening early on would lend special importance to her being lost in the snow after the destruction of Haven. Imagine his agony at not knowing if she made it, and this weighing on his heart the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a Cullen-heavy chapter and some early bonding! I always loved thinking about all the little moments that lead up to the cut scenes we get to see in the game. This didn't turn out quite the way I'd planned and I might revise it a bit later. But here we go.<3
> 
> PS: I also strongly felt that there should have been Mabari in Inquisition. So I put them in mine.

Just a few nights after the company’s return from the Storm Coast to recruit the Iron Bull and his Chargers, there was a blizzard. The wind had been particularly vocal that night, a constant series of moans and howls as it raked through the trees and rattled the window panes of the various cabins. Tents were turned over and, before the night was up, everybody that could fit had been squeezed into one of the sturdier structures. Cabins, the smithy, the tavern, and every room of the chantry – even the cellar below – was packed full of cots and pallets. The allotment of bedding was diplomatically determined by Josephine, who gave the most comfortable to the elderly, wounded, or infirm. Meanwhile, Leliana had her people taking a head count.

Cullen paced the rows in the Chantry. He had spent the afternoon scavenging blankets wherever he could find them and burlap sacks when he could not. A few of the men were even huddling beneath the tarps that they normally used as tents. Serving men and women scuttled between each clustered group of soldiers, refugees, and pilgrims, cookpots in tow. The rations were… modest, to say the least. As far as he could tell, it was a stew with a base of cabbage, onion, and some mysterious meat that he suspected was nug… He kept those suspicions to himself, however. If Leliana thought one of those creatures had been chopped up to serve the troupes they might all end up going hungry. 

People spoke in hushed murmurs, but these stone walls had been constructed much like an amphitheater, meant to project sound. It wasn’t quiet. The hundreds of candles that were usually strewn about had been distributed between the people so as to make sure nobody who didn’t have the heart for it would be left in the dark.

The Iron Bull and his troupes occupied one corner near the back of the great hall, strategically placed so as to keep watch on all doors at the time. Cullen didn’t know much about Seheron, only what he’d learned in his studies. His personal experience with the Qunari people, during their years long occupation in Kirkwall hadn’t made him particularly eager to learn more. He did know, however, that it was a humid, tropical place. Even so, the leader of the Chargers stood there, in his usual attire – meaning, nearly bare from the waist up – with his arms crossed and looking no more uncomfortable for the brutal weather that had most of them shivering. Qunari, he thought, were as close to stone as one could get without being a golem.

Vivienne, for once, looked less than at ease, huddled there in a fur-lined cloak that she had produced from her substantial pile of luggage. She never seemed to mind grime or blood on her person, but Cullen doubted that she was very used to being left vulnerable to the elements without the benefit of a hearth that was taller than she was and twice as wide. Being the mistress of an Orlesian politician came with perks that could turn one soft, though he wouldn’t normally use that word with the First Enchanter’s name in the same sentence. 

He caught sight of Varric, off to the side. He made no effort to control his volume. He spoke in animated tones, gesturing with his gloved hands. The cluster of people gathered around him seemed to have forgotten the storm, so enraptured were they by the tale of the Champion of Kirkwall. _That’s not quite how I remember it…_ Cullen thought, still he raised his hand in acknowledgment. Varric gave a smirk followed by a mischievous wink. Cullen froze. 

“Then there was Knight-Captain Cullen, his sword painted with blood, squaring off against the Knight-Commander and proclaiming that it was the duty of all Templars to-“ 

Cullen growled and resisted the urge to turn his greeting into an aggressive gesture. It wasn’t good for morale. _That is not what I said. Not exactly. Blighted dwarf._ Scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he turned and strode the other way, lest he have to listen to more of the story that was eerily like his own and yet foreign to him in so many ways. 

That was when he caught sight of the Herald. He had seen her earlier, one of the first individuals that Cassandra had herded into the Chantry when the weather had begun to turn dangerously foul. Now, she moved between the people, a cast iron pot propped against her hip and a ladle in one hand. Cullen handed off his bundle of fabric to his lieutenant. “Make sure everyone stays warm, rotate them around the various hearths, if you must. Ensure that there are enough chamber pots and that everyone has food and water. We are burrowing in. Nobody steps foot outside until the storm passes. Tell the people to prepare for a long night.” The accommodations weren’t ideal, but the alternative was far worse

“Commander,” the elf greeted when he approached. She met his eyes, now; something that had taken her a while to be able to do without flinching. The candle-light brought out gold flecks in her green eyes. “Would you like a bowl of… well, I don’t know what kind of stew this is. Really, it’s more broth than anything. To be honest, they wouldn’t have fed this to their cats, in the Imperium.” He wondered what kind of food they had fed to her; but he didn’t ask. 

“Cullen,” he said firmly. 

She gave him a strange look. “No… Not that you aren’t a choice cut of-“ He flushed. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but it seemed that her cheeks went rosy too before she hurried on, “But they wouldn’t have fed you that to their cats either.” 

Cullen’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. He folded his hands over his hip and only then remembered that he wasn’t wearing his sword. Deliberately, he lowered his arms to his sides instead of crossing them over his chest. It wouldn’t do to have her think he was chastising her. “My name is Cullen.” 

“Oh, I…am aware, Commander.” A tiny, confused grin spread across her lips, inviting him to explain himself. “So, did you want a bowl of –“

“What I want,” he said, almost wincing when his voice came out firmer and, thanks to the damnable stone walls of the hall, louder than he intended. The Herald’s tiny frame tensed. Nearby, a few faces turned in their direction. _Maker’s breath, I’ve gotten too used to giving orders. I barely remember how to talk like a person, anymore._ Carefully, he cupped his fingers around her elbow and led her off to one side. He worked to gentle his voice, “What I want, is for you to call me by my name.” 

Those green eyes widened a little in surprise. “I’m sorry Comm-“ he narrowed his eyes and she bit her lip, her teeth left small indentations in the plump pink skin as she continued tentatively. “Cullen... I didn’t mean to offend.” 

Triumph. It shot through him warmly, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. “No, you haven’t offended me. I just…” What? How could he explain to her why it seemed important that she greet him with familiarity when he didn’t know himself? Wondering about the reasoning made him feel uncomfortable. Instead, he changed the subject. “You know, you don’t have to do that,” he tipped his head toward the pot she carried. 

“I don’t mind, really. To be honest, this is the first thing I’ve done since coming here that I’ve known, with certainty, I can do right.”

As if to prove her talent, she stirred her ladle through the mystery stew with a flourish. 

He frowned. “Forgive me, but, to my knowledge, you haven’t made any particularly ghastly blunders since you came to be with us.” On the contrary, she worked hard, never complained, did her best to learn what they needed and expected of her as an agent of the Inquisition. She hadn’t asked for this, but she was here, working for them, with them. How could she think she had done wrong? _The past does not let go easily,_ he reminded himself, fingers curling. He knew that better than most. 

“Herald –“ he began.

“My name is Ariel.”

“Right… Ariel…”

“Commander!” That voice, musical and airy, came from Leliana as she approached them. Cullen was almost grateful. Almost. Because he hadn’t had a single fleeting idea as to what he was going to say. 

“We have completed the initial headcount, there is one missing, an elven maid,” the Spymaster said, flipping through several pages that were each full of three columns of neatly scrawled names and ranks. 

“Could she be in one of the cabins?” Ariel asked, shifting her pot on her hip so that she could take a closer peak. 

Leliana shook her head, “No. My people can communicate between the cabins and the Chantry with mirrors, even in a blizzard. She isn’t anywhere to be found,” her gloved finger traced down the list, pausing on one name. 

Ariel made a pained sound. Her green eyes were very wide. “She was the girl who was with me when I first woke up… Andraste preserve her, she must be so frightened! We have to find her.”

Leliana hesitated. Cullen could see the conflict. He wasn’t proud that he could understand it; even agree with it. The risk of posting a search party, the lives or limbs that could potentially be lost, all for one elven serving girl… But Ariel looked resolute. Somehow he knew, with certainty, she would march out into that storm herself, even if nobody else would. “We must move quickly,” he said, ignoring the look Leliana sent in his direction. He motioned the lieutenant over, “Every moment lost is vital. Rally every soldier who handles a mabari, choose three who are the best trackers. Make sure they have a cask of brandy, any blankets or tarps that can be spared, and some health potions.” 

“My scouts will go with them,” said Leliana when the man pressed a fist to his chest and hurried off. Whether the Spymaster disapproved or not, was not apparent in her voice. She was all business. “With a mirror; they can communicate if something goes wrong.”

“It would be faster to send more than one party,” Ariel said. 

“Faster, yes. But we would undoubtedly lose more men. Leliana, when was the girl last seen?” It was only when he felt a shudder run through her, that he realized he still had his fingers curled around Ariel’s elbow. “One group can make a sweep, but it would help if we knew where she was last seen.”

According to Leliana’s information, the girl hadn’t lived here in the village proper. Her family had a cabin in the valley, but, as they had rarely come to Haven save to resupply occasionally, and not at all since the Inquisition had taken up residence, they were not on any list of occupants. It was decided that one troupe would be sent in that direction, in hopes that the dogs would be able to uncover her scent. 

“I’m going too,” Ariel said firmly, setting her pot of stew down. 

Cullen stiffened. “I would rest easier if I knew that you were here,” Then again, she usually wasn’t. He had many restless nights.

“Forgive me, my Lady, but we need you to be safe. The Anchor,” was their best hope. Their only hope. Leliana didn’t get the chance to finish. 

The elven woman drew herself up to her full height. Even so, she didn’t quite reach Cullen’s collar bone. Her face was resolute. “The Anchor is the only thing that can close the Rifts, exactly. And, how do you know that I just happened to come across every one of them when Cassandra and I were trekking through the valley? I’m willing to wager there are at least a few still out there. If the search party runs into one, what then?”

Cullen hated how sensible her words sounded. Granted, she’d been out in the field much of the time, walking into danger nearly every day since they had found her. Maker, they’d been all but _throwing_ her into harm’s way. It was always difficult to watch her leave without knowing that she would return safely. He had duties that kept him from volunteering as one of the companions who had the privilege of traveling with her wherever she went. This time though… His men were all taking shelter. There could be no training, no real planning of troupe movements, until the storm passed. He couldn’t be there to protect their Herald in the field. But he could be with her now and he would not watch her walk out into that storm and be left behind to worry. Again.

“I will go with you.” His voice was firm. Ariel nodded. Leliana looked like she might protest, but, at his pointed look, she nodded and went to see to her scouts. The men would look after the elven girl, if they found her, Ariel would look after the men, if they happened upon a Rift and he would look after Ariel, at all costs.

They left within the hour. All of them, even the warriors, had opted for leather armor since plait mail would make it too easy to fall behind and freeze to death. The party consisted of half a dozen soldiers who had been born in the Frostbacks, or near to them, three of Leliana’s finest scouts, three mabari war hounds, the Commander of the Inquisition, and the Herald of Andraste - _Ariel_. Already, the snow reached up Cullen’s shins, nearly as high as Ariel’s knees. It was one of the soldiers who brought out the long length of rope, instructing them each to hold on to it, if not tie it to their belt. One could trip or fall behind in the merciless weather and their cries would be lost to the howling of the wind. The rest of the party might not realize it until it was too late. 

The dogs plodded on ahead, so intent on their purpose that they seemed not to notice the snow. They spread wide, weaving back and forth, noses to the ground, occasionally returning to their handlers for confirmation of their fine work, or to receive further instruction. Ariel was somewhat less sturdy. The company selected to conduct the search had been deliberately composed of humans, because they were generally taller and would, therefore, be able to cover more distance in the snow. Ariel was the only exception. Two of the men walked in front of her, leaving a trail of footprints that she could follow without hindrance, but the wind hit her without mercy, causing her to stagger. Cullen walked behind her, keeping his left hand braced on her shoulder for fear that she might be swept right of the mountain.

So, he felt the spasm in her muscles a heartbeat before there was a sharp crackle and the eerie green glow of the Anchor pierced through the flurry of white that was the blizzard. Over the din, Cullen bellowed for the others to stop. His right hand went to his hilt, a few inches of blade clearing the scabbard in a fluid motion. He pushed back his hood, ignoring the sting of the buffeting cold on his face and ears, and squinted into the squall. Visibility was all but nonexistent. He could see Ariel, directly in front of him, but beyond her the soldiers and scouts were muffled shapes, barely distinguishable, their edges blurring into the surroundings. He couldn’t see the dogs, at all. Tilting his head slightly, senses striving, he tried to listen for the tell tale ravenous growl that was standard of demonic beings. But the blizzard rendered him, not only blind, but deaf. 

From the side, a shadow suddenly materialized in the snow, hurtling toward them with frenzied dedication. Cullen slammed his sword back into its sheathe and threw himself on top of Ariel a split second before the demon’s claws tore through the space where she had just been standing. They rolled through the snow in a tangle of arms and legs. They came to a stop, with him crouched over her, his shield covering them both. Then Cullen surged to his feet, his lip curled and teeth bared. His sword cleared the scabbard before he could think about it, becoming one with his arm, an extension of himself. The cold dropped away. A familiar clarity filled his mind, pushing everything else aside. _Come on,_ he thought, resolute. _Come try to take her from me._

And come it did. He heard its outraged shriek before he saw it, pivoted on the balls of his feet and smoothly slid the edge of his blade through the claws that were arcing toward him. Like silk. He watched with satisfaction as those foul digits fell away from the monster’s hand, splattering the white snow with grimy, blackish-red ichor. From the calm of the void, he heard the sound of shouting, the faint ring of steel and the battle howls of the dogs. More demons, pouring from the Rift that he still couldn’t see. 

The demon loomed over him with deadly intent. Its howl rose over the wail of the storm, and then stopped abruptly as ice suddenly engulfed it, climbing over its hideous form and leaving a strange, crystallized sculpture that glared hatefully down at him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Ariel, still climbing to her feet – only a handful of seconds had passed – with her hand lifted. Her eyes were hard, face white. He turned back toward the frozen demon, shifted his stance just slightly and, with a mighty cry, slammed his shield into it with all of his strength. It shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. 

Ariel moved past him, battling the fierce wind, in the direction that the demon had come from. He followed, passing her in two strides so that his shield and sword were between her and whatever came next. The guttural sounds of other demons could be heard now, the rest of the party could be seen, just barely, in the near distance. 

The rift appeared high overhead, a jagged, quaking tear in the sky. The space around it was oddly calm, as if the storm dared not go near to the wrongness. Ariel lifted her hand, a strand of matching green light streaming from her left hand to the rift above, seeming to link them together for a moment. Her teeth were bared as though in pain. When she yanked away, the rift became… fluid, howling. It seemed to protest its destruction, writhed to remain. The demons nearby gave wails of anguish as they were dragged, unerringly, back into the Fade. Cullen stayed close. The rifts never went so easily. “Prepare for the next wave!” he roared over the wind. The troupes moved close, less than they had started with. There was only one scout that he could see, bow drawn, a dozen feet away. 

With a sound like breaking glass, several beams of light suddenly surged from the tear, streaking down to the snow and leaving behind a sickly, bubbling green mass that slowly materialized into more demons. Cullen bared his teeth, hurtling toward the one nearest to his Herald. They would not have her. Not so long as he was there. He would die first. 

The demon blood burned on his skin, repulsive, toxic. He killed four more of them, before the rift, with one final, feeble screech, was sealed. The storm came for them in seconds. The wrongness gone, there was nothing to keep it at bay. Ariel seemed unsteady. Her lips were blue. Cullen pulled her to his side, lest she buckle or fall, carefully pulling her hood up to cover her delicate, pointed ears. Pulling up his own, he turned to take stock, as best he could. Two soldiers down, one scout gone, the other injured. The hounds were all accounted for, but one was hovering over one of the fallen soldiers, radiating devastation. 

“We have to keep moving!” he shouted when the remaining party members drew close enough to hear him. Fumbling with the pouch on his belt, he shoved a few vials of red liquid into waiting hands, making certain that Ariel took one. 

“But Commander-“ one of the warriors protested, looking toward the body over which the hound was still crouched, licking her master’s face as if to bring him back. Cullen knew the undercurrent of his words, the order to leave the fallen. They wouldn’t likely be recovered. Not after this snowfall. The Commander clenched his jaw. No time for regret.

“There isn’t any time. If we stay out in this much longer, we –“

“Cullen!” 

He realized that Ariel was tugging on his cloak desperately. Her green eyes were huge and she was staring over his shoulder. Beneath their feet, there was a rumbling vibration. “Andraste preserve us,” the prayer was lost to the blizzard. Perhaps the Maker’s Bride would still hear his plea. “Call the hound. Move! _Now!_ ” Cullen bellowed, already acting on his own commands, pushing Ariel ahead of him, all but carrying her when she stumbled in the deep snow. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, and then pushed himself faster. A wave of rock and snow was surging toward them at an alarming speed. 

_Faster. Maker give me strength, run faster!_ He could not have been more grateful that he wasn’t hindered by heavy plate armor. His heart pounded in his ears, a rapid drumbeat. Time was reduced to how many paces he could push through in a second.; how far ahead of the avalanche he could push Ariel. He pushed. Pushed harder. But he knew that it wasn’t enough. They couldn’t outrun this. His eyes darted about desperately, seeking, hunting, _willing_ there to be something that could shelter them from the roaring slide that would swallow them otherwise. 

And there it was. He gave a shout of triumph without realizing it. Just ahead, there was an outcropping, a small ridge about ten feet up from a short drop. It curved over the space below, forming a shallow hollow. From somewhere – he couldn’t have said where – he found another burst of strength. The avalanche nipping at their heels, Cullen pushed Ariel over that ridge and leaped after her. The jolt of landing on his feet was jarring down to his bones, but he didn’t pause. The elf stumbled forward and he reached out to catch her, dragging her back beneath the shelter and turning to push her as deep into that hollow as he could, bracing himself over her. It wasn’t hard to cover her entire body with his. 

Minutes stretched on; how many, he couldn’t have said. The outcropping kept the snow from crushing them, but before long, it had closed in on all sides, burying them in an icy cave. The howling of the blizzard was smothered by groan of the snow slide. Then it was all over and there was only eerie silence. 

Closing his eyes, Cullen forced himself to suck in a deep breath that was so cold it burned his throat. With effort, he pushed himself back and looked down at Ariel. “Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely. She swallowed a few times, nodding vaguely. “Thank the Maker.” Squeezing her shoulders, he turned to survey the situation. 

With the exception of the single rock wall that arched over them, everything else was white. When he put his hand up to test the solidity of it, he found the snow packed so tight that it might as well have been stone. Desolation threatened to overwhelm him. No hope of digging themselves out. No other search parties to look for them; not until the blizzard cleared. _Blast._ “We should have sent out more parties,” he muttered. 

“I suppose this is probably the worst time to say ‘I told you so’ but…” Ariel’s voice was a tired rasp that sounded painful. 

Cullen forced a chuckle. It sounded rough to his ears. “On the contrary, there could be no better time.” And there might not be another one, if they didn’t find a way to survive. He returned to Ariel. She was slumped against the wall and seemed to be losing height by the second. He caught her as her knees gave way and gently eased her to a seated position. Checking her over more thoroughly, he felt his stomach twist in sympathy. A couple of the fingers on her right hand were bent at painfully awkward, unnatural angles. He took her hand in both of his. “Ariel, your fingers… they’re dislocated. I am going to have to push them back. It will hurt.”

He hadn’t known it was possible, but her face went even whiter, her eyes round. Despite her fear, she lifted her chin and spoke in a strained voice. “Th-they’ve been numb since we left haven… I d-doubt I will feel it at all.” They both knew that wasn’t true. Still, Cullen nodded. Lifting one hand to his mouth, he bit down on the middle and ring fingers of his glove and pulled it off. Ariel said nothing when he offered it to her, merely pulled the leather tight and set it between her teeth. He pulled off the other glove, laying it over his knee, and reached for her fingers again. 

With a sickening crack, he pushed the first finger back into place. Ariel bit down hard, muffling her scream. Cullen didn’t hesitate; he pushed the second finger into place. Tears streamed down Ariel’s face and a sob racked her body. “Forgive me,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his face, cupping it between his and blowing gently into the cave that made trying to warm her skin. “Forgive me.” 

After a moment, she spat out his glove, taking in a few ragged breaths. Her eyes were heavy-lidded when she looked up at him. “You’re bleeding.” 

Was he? Surprised, he followed her gaze down to his side, where his armor had been torn in four jagged lines. It was, indeed, stained red. “It’s nothing.” He hadn’t even noticed it, so absorbed had he been with keeping her safe. Off to one side, he could see her staff… or, what remained of it. Cullen lifted his head, “Ariel, can you burn a path to the surface?” 

Sadly, she shook her head. “I can try b-but…” he couldn’t make sense of the way she looked away from him, as if ashamed. “My magic doesn’t always work the way I want it to, or when I want it to. Sometimes, it doesn’t work at all.” Maker. He scrubbed a hand over his face, not wanting her to see his disappointment. 

“All I can ask is that you try,” he said, standing, and carefully pulling her to her feet. “If the Maker has as much of a soft spot for you as I believe, perhaps he will intervene.” 

He didn’t.

More than an hour later, Ariel slumped back against the rock wall that might now become her tomb. “I’m sorry, I can’t… It works mostly when I’m angry. But, I’m not angry. I’m scared… and I’m tired. So tired.” 

Cullen closed his eyes. He was tired too. The pain in his side had finally caught up to him and he was beginning to forget what it meant to be warm, to draw a full breath. Would hypothermia kill them before their air ran out? Or would it be the opposite? He had tried to light a fire himself, but the survival equipment that he had been carrying had been lost in their flight from the avalanche. “Come here,” he beckoned. Wearily, she obeyed. “We will need to start worrying about conserving our body-heat. And our air,” he said. She blinked at him. Then, understanding came over her face when he pulled her against him. Sliding down the wall, he cradled her against his chest, legs propped up on either side of her tiny frame. She would survive longer, if he wasn’t consuming half of the air they were sharing. But the cold would claim her sooner if he went cold on her. Helplessly, he pressed his cheek to her hair. 

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder,” he began to pray quietly, pulling her tighter against his chest. Her fingers coiled into his cloak tightly. “Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide…”

\-------------

“Cullen… Cullen! Wake up! Please wake up! Cullen come back… please, please don’t leave me!” Frozen hands shook him, cupped his face, stroking his cheeks. Slowly, he swam back to consciousness. When had he fallen asleep? He opened his eyes… or tried to. His eyelashes were frozen together. He pried them open with effort to fin Ariel’s face right in front of him, her forehead pressed to his. She sobbed when she realized he was awake. He could barely understand her over the chattering of her teeth “Oh, thank the Maker! I thought.. I thought…”

“No… no, I’m here. You have my word,” he just had to stay awake. Cullen wished that it didn’t sound like such a hopeless task. “Are you al-“ he bit back the words. Of course she wasn’t alright. Frostbite had scoured her cheeks, leaving raw, angry tracks over the high curve of them and her lips were cracked, blue. But she was smiling. 

“Listen!” Cullen listened. At first, he didn’t hear a thing. And then… Sitting up straighter, he pushed back his hood and listened closer. A faint scratching, a baying howl. Shouts. “Here!” Ariel screamed, scrambling to her feet. Her voice was so raw it barely filled the small space they were inhabiting. Standing, staggering, Cullen added his voice to hers, barely noticing how it hurt. 

From above, someone was yelling. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Ariel could. She backed against him hard, sending them back against the rock face, just as the snowy ceiling from above collapsed with a groan. The light was sharp and blinding. It hurt. He couldn’t get enough of it. A dog barked – the mabari whose master had been killed in the fight for that rift – and Solas appeared, flames still alight in his hands. He called out and more figures were around him; Iron Bull, a couple of his Chargers, Leliana, to name a few, along with the mabari, who was yapping for all she was worth. 

A rope dropped down into the hole. Cullen dragged Ariel into the light and carefully tied it around her. “She needs medical attention,” he said as he did his best to help lift her as they began to pull her out. She shot him a look that was no less incensed for her being so exhausted. 

“He’s bleeding,” she countered, reaching up. The Bull wrapped his massive hands with their sausage sized fingers around her upper arms and hauled her out. Cullen took his first full breath in hours. The rope dropped down again for him. He hated how much of the work he didn’t do, though he tried to help, climbing with his legs as they pulled him up. He had almost forgotten he had been injured in the battle. 

At some point, the blizzard had gentled. It was still snowing. The wind still howled, but the worst had seemed to pass. The dog of the fallen soldier had managed to escape the avalanche. On its own, it had tracked back to Haven and had thrown herself against the Chantry’s doors until someone had opened up. Realizing what must have happened, they had sent a search party out instantly. The other soldiers that had been with them had been recovered. Not all of them were in as good a condition as the Commander and their Herald. The elven maid that they had gone on this mission for had been found, taking refuge in one of the abandoned cabins in the valley between Haven and her family’s house. The party had come with sleds, drawn by horses with shaggy coats that were native to the mountains – Dennett’s stock was superb, but these draft creatures were used to this terrain and sturdy enough to withstand the extreme temperatures. 

Cullen was bundled onto one of those sleds next to Ariel. Bundles of fur were stacked on top of them and a swallow of brandy was poured down each of their throats. He let his head fall back, saying a silent prayer of thanks for what could only have been divine intervention. 

His last thought, before sleep claimed him, was a peaceful one. _Merciful Andraste, thank you for giving me the strength to protect her. My Herald._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald and the Commander spar together. Unfortunately, neither of them are quite able to keep their pasts at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took me so long to hammer out. I must have rewritten it four or five times. It just refused to do what I wanted it to do. Anyway, here we go!

The highest peaks were wearing the crown of the first rays of dawn, casting a dim gray light over the sleepy village of Haven. Most who resided there had the good sense to be indoors, still bundled beneath their many layers of thick blankets and fur throws. Of course, there was the occasional soldier on patrol, alert and watchful, if somewhat less than happy about it.

Only two figures were awake who did not strictly have to be, one tall and broad, the other far smaller, more willowy. Despite their dissimilitude in stature, they circled each other slowly, eyes watchful. That they had discarded their heavy coats was evidence that they’d been at this since before even the sun had begun to rouse, something the patrolmen didn’t care to understand. This shift was usually reserved for those who had garnered some sort of disciplinary action. That anyone would actively seek to be anywhere but tucked warmly abed at this hour made little sense. Of course, it did give them something to talk about during those precious few hours they could steal away to visit the tavern. 

Suddenly, the smaller of the two figures darted forward, lunging with her staff at the ready. The taller figure pivoted smoothly on one foot, strong hand gripping the base of the weapon. A small tug, a neat twist, and the attacker went stumbling through the snow a small distance before regaining her footing. The Commander didn’t return the attack, she knew that he could easily have outmatched her in that moment, but, instead, waited for her to regain her footing and turn toward him once again. 

“You’re being too cautious,” Cullen said, twirling his practice sword a couple times to loosen his wrist, “You’re only taking the openings that would let you avoid injury. It makes you predictable.”

Ariel circled around him again, brows furrowed with concentration. “Isn’t that the whole point of this? To keep from being hurt?” They’d been practicing before the dawn for a couple weeks now. Cullen had sought her out just days before Ariel and her party had gone to Redcliffe to meet with Grand Enchanter Fiona and her mages. Ariel could still remember the grim light in those brown eyes.

\--------------------

_Ariel paused, teetering on the tips of her toes, fingertips just touching the bristles of the brush that was hung on a peg high over her head. A shadow had just fallen over her. There was no need to turn around in order to identify whose it was; those broad shoulders crested by that distinctive mane were unmistakable._

“You’re unhappy.” 

“It is not my place to question your decisions,” his deep voice replied, She nearly jumped when his arm snaked over her shoulder, retrieving the brush that she was dancing on tip-toe to reach, and placing it in her hand. He went on. “But I have to admit that I am… concerned. Are you certain you won’t reconsider?”

Ariel shook her head reluctantly. “I didn’t want to be the one to make the decision in the first place, but I do think it’s the right one. Lord Seeker Lucius made it clear that he and his Templars want nothing to do with the Inquisition. Fiona, at least, invited our aid and freely offered hers.” 

Ariel began to brush Lark slowly. Whenever time allowed, she preferred to tend to the horse herself. It was familiar, simple, cathartic. After a brief moment, Cullen appeared on the other side of the horse, another brush in his hand. He began to work with her in long, even strokes. His expression was guarded, carefully blank. “Will you, then, allow me to send a small squadron of troops to accompany you? There’s no telling what you might find n Redcliffe.” That, she did consider, watching his hand, unconsciously matching his rhythm as she did so. 

“I… well, if you insist, I can’t really disagree. You are the Commander of the Inquisition after all but… I don’t think that would be a good idea. Fiona took a great risk to seek us in Val Royeaux. She came alone and unarmed. It seems folly to repay that with suspicion. The mages she speaks for might think it an aggressive move and retaliate before we ever get a chance to speak. And then there’s the Arl…” who would probably not be particularly welcoming to a military force, however small, marching into his city without express permission from him. 

Cullen sighed, his eyes troubled. “You’re right, of course.” He sounded resigned. 

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t happen that often.”

He gave a chuckle that sounded forced. “I’m sure it happens more often than you might think.” Then, the grin fled from his handsome face and he retreated into a pensive silence. For a long moment there was no sound but the steady sweeping of the brushes and the occasional equine plodding or snorting that arose from various stalls about the stable. Then the Commander spoke again. “I understand why you think this is the best choice to make, I can see the sense in it, even if I don’t like it. But, I wonder, since you won’t allow me to talk you out of it, if perhaps you might grant me a personal boon?” 

She blinked up at him. After all he had done to keep her alive… after she had nearly let him die when she had failed to get them out of that snow cave… did he think he really needed to ask? “Of course. Anything.”

When that scar on the side of his mouth lifted, she wondered just what she had agreed to.

\--------------------

“It’s combat and you wear light armor,” Cullen said, advancing as he spoke, slowly forcing her back, “You are going to get injured. You can’t avoid it and the more you try, the worse it will be, the fewer options you will give yourself. The best you can do is tuck your chin and do your best to minimize the damage.” 

Too late, Ariel realized that he was herding her. She tried to dance to the side, but he had backed her nearly into the trees. He was everywhere, guarding every side. There was no getting past him. She was trapped. Though Ariel knew that she was in no real danger, that this was _Cullen_ who would never hurt her, she felt her heart speed within her chest. Instinct began to take hold of her. Trapped, cornered, caged… there had to be a way to get around him. He moved forward, thrusting toward her side with his wooden practice sword. She just barely managed to dodge, using the staff to bat the weapon away while trying to dart to the side that he had left open. Instead of taking a moment to recover, as she would have, he merely let the momentum of her swing send him into a neat spin that brought him quickly back around in the direction that she was trying to dodge around.

He ducked, one shoulder dipping low as he used his free hand, his shield hand, to grasp her leg at the shin and tug it deftly out from under her. Ariel squeaked and went sprawling in the snow, panting softly, eyes full of fire. Pushing up on one elbow and baring her teeth, Ariel lifted one hand. The Anchor surged, green light undulating around her fist. It materialized into a stony mold that flew at Cullen. She saw his eyes widen just before it collided with his chest, sending him flying backward. 

Cullen flashed to his feet just as Ariel was staggering to hers. He caught her and hurled her back against the nearest tree, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her staff fell from suddenly numb fingers. “What in the name of–“ she began on a growl, and broke off with a startled gasp. He was right on top of her, pinning her wrists over her head, his lip curling in silent snarl. Heart racing, Ariel searched his face, swallowing hard. His eyes were fierce, detached. _Andraste preserve me._ She stopped struggling, even as his strong fingers tightened so firmly on her wrists that she could almost feel her bones grinding together. She did her best to make her voice firm, “Cullen, let me go right now.” What exactly had she done? It was as though she had reached through the veil, into the very Fade itself, and pulled something through. It was like no magic she had ever performed before. It had been pure instinct.

For a moment, he pressed tighter against her, his brows furrowing as if he was confused. It was hard, so hard, to look into that fierce gaze, but somehow she managed not to cringe. Then he blinked once, twice. And Cullen was himself again, pushing the wild creature that had taken him in that moment back into the depths. His breath exploded out of him as he pushed himself away from her with such force that it sent him staggering. 

He stared at her and she at him. Then, he lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, and his voice sounded pained. “Maker’s breath, I’m so sorry.” He shook his head. The dawn light seemed to catch fire in his blonde curls. For a heartbeat, his expression was one of agony. Then it was gone so fast that she wondered if she had imagined it.

“No,” it took her a moment to find her voice, “It was my fault. I didn’t mean to cast at you I just… I-I’ve been on edge ever since Redcliffe.” Fear, fury, the two seemed to be combating for dominance inside of her. It was making her magic erratic at best. She wasn’t even sure exactly what she had just sent at Cullen. All she knew was that she had pulled it from the Fade itself. It had to be something to do with the Anchor. 

“You have nothing to apologize for. I – we – want you to be able to cast in the heat of battle. These things that I am teaching you are a secondary precaution. And nobody can fault you for being on edge, myself least of all. Not after what you encountered.” 

The memory of it alone, made her feel cold all over. Just like it had done then. They’d walked into Redcliffe, after encountering that strange, mobility warping Fade Rift, only to be told that Grand Enchanter Fiona was no longer an authority who could negotiate, but that she was welcome to speak with Magister Alexius, if she so chose. For a moment, the whole of the world had been reduced to that word; one of the ugliest words in all the world. _Magister, Magister, Magister…_ it had blared through her skull, a horrific, sepulchral calling. She hadn’t even realized her knees had buckled until the Iron Bull caught her before she could hit the ground.

Somehow, she’d found her feet again, had stumbled down to the docks, gulping in the damp air in an effort to calm her rising panic. After a moment, her body had managed to remember what her mind had been desperately repeating… she was no longer a slave. Even so, it had been hard to catch her breath. When she’d finally managed to reign in the fear, she had found that there was nothing but temper. Why would Fiona issue an invitation only to turn around and indenture her people to the Imperium? 

More concerning, as Cassandra had pointed out, was the question of why the Arl had allowed Tevinter to infect his village. Ariel had never met Teagan Guerrin in any sort of official capacity, but she had seen him once or twice, back when he was a Bann and business or family had brought him to Denerim. He had even spoken to her, once, though she doubted it was anything he was likely to recall. He’d been staying at Arl Eamon’s estate, where her mother was employed as a maid. He’d nearly tripped over her while turning a corner. Most shems, particularly nobles, hardly noticed elves, and when they did it was usually to scold them. But Teagan had stopped reading whatever document had shielded his vision and bowed graciously to her, offering her ‘most humble apologies, my lady.’ She’d spent the rest of the day telling anyone who would listen that Bann Teagan thought she was a lady. It was a small thing, to base an opinion of a man on, but she found it hard to believe that a man who would show such kindness to an elven child would sell anyone into slavery. 

The Bull had suggested, and they had all been of a mind to agree, that they should go seek the Arl out to ask him about this strange situation. That was when the red-headed young man had approached them. _”He’s gone. The Magister evicted him. He must be half way to Denerim by now.”_ When questioned about how he had come to have this knowledge, he had revealed that he was Teagan’s nephew, the son of the King’s advisor, none other than Connor Guerrin; the boy who had been possessed by a demon and had been cleansed. 

In light of that news, the only choice had been to go and meet with Fiona, in hopes that she might have been able to make some sense of the senseless situation.

She hadn’t. If anything, Fiona had been even more confused than they were. She didn’t recall issuing her invitation to the Inquisition. In fact, she insisted that she hadn’t been to Val Royeaux since well before the Conclave. Ariel had almost felt sorry for the older woman, when the Magister had swaggered in, nose high in the air, and haughtily declared that he would be changing the terms of the agreement he had made with the Grand Enchanter. Almost. 

The information they had managed to find, from the Magister’s former apprentice, no less, was too unbelievable to be false. Time magic. Ariel had only ever heard of it spoken of as a theory, something her master and his fellows might have debated over after imbibing too much wine. The idea that someone had managed to put it into practice was staggering. The fact that not only the Magister’s apprentice, but his son were conspiring to stop whatever plan he was attempting to set into motion was testament to just how unstable Alexius’ experiments must be. 

Rubbing her wrists, Ariel pushed off of the tree. Cullen retrieved her coat from the low-hanging branch over which they had hung their outerwear. Turning toward her, he held it open, slipping it over each arm and settling it over her shoulders. She stooped to retrieve her staff as he shrugged into his own coat. Together, they began to walk down the road that would lead back to the main sector of the village. They had these sessions a small distance away from the village proper, where there were only a handful of broadly spaced houses, so as not to disturb any who were still sleeping. 

As the light of the morning grew brighter, Ariel studied the Commander’s profile. His expression was drawn and he looked tired. There were circles under his eyes. Was he upset about what had happened?

“I am sorry…” she blurted again.

At the same time, Cullen said, “Forgive me…” 

She forced a smile. “Go ahead.”

“I didn’t mean to… I never wanted,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “All my life, I wanted to be a Templar. I could think of no better calling, than to protect those who truly needed it. I left the order behind to join the Inquisition, but the instincts… they don’t shift so easily. But, I want you to know that it was _never_ my intention to frighten you.” 

Ariel worried her lip between her teeth. She had never seen Cullen lose control like that. Knowing he had been a Templar, that he had been trained to strike down mages in the event of possession or when they strained against the confines of the circle was one thing. Seeing him become it, however, that fierce, detached glaze in his normally warm gaze… she had hardly recognized him. And she couldn’t honestly say that she couldn’t imagine being afraid of him. She had been afraid, in that moment.

She could understand instincts, how they could take you over without ever asking permission. Back in that Chantry where they’d met the mage named Dorian, her own had overcome her, for just a moment, in the aftermath of the battle to close that Rift. The mage had just been turning around to speak to her when she’d spun away from the last writhing demon that was clawing at the ground as it was drawn unwillingly back into the Fade, and swung her staff into the handsome face of the man who, as it turned out, wanted to be their ally. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to be sorry about the satisfying yelp he had given, or the indignation in his voice as he’d cursed at her. Magister or not, he had still been partially responsible for whatever unnatural magic that Alexius was using that was, if Dorian was to be believed ‘unraveling the world.’ He ought to count himself lucky she hadn’t hit him harder.

“Cullen,” she said at last, “Can we just agree that we both acted rashly and be grateful that nobody was around to witness?”

His warm brown gaze held nothing of the cold Templar that had hurled her against that tree. He grinned faintly. “If it pleases my lady.” Then his expression hardened, stony and unyielding. She followed his gaze to see one of the Inquisition’s soldiers, dozing at his post. Beside her, Cullen tensed. His voice was a harsh bark. “You there! I hadn’t realized the war had been won. Wait, it hasn’t. Keep your wits about you. If I had a mind for it, your heart would be decorating my blade.” 

The soldier jerked to attention, looking properly appalled. His gaze darted between the Commander and Ariel, she could practically see the question in his eyes. The gossip that would spread. But all he said was “Yes Commander.” 

At the same moment, Leliana hurried toward them, her eyes fixed on the length of parchment in her hand. “We have received word from the King of Ferelden,” she said, offering the message to Ariel, who took it without really knowing what to do with it. “Alistair is willing… no, forgive me, he is _eager_ to meet with us. He will have a company of soldiers and be waiting personally at the Crossroads within a fortnight.” 

Ariel smiled. “Good. Then we will be ready to deal with this Magister.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste reunites with a very old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It never sat right with me that a certain Bastard King only shows up in the aftermath that is the Redcliffe plotline. Considering his attachment to Redcliffe and dear old "sort of" Uncle Teagan, i always felt he should be more involved. And so, in my retelling, he will be! Enjoy!

_9:16 Dragon, fourteen years before the Fifth Blight: Arl Eamonn’s Estate: Denerim:_

_The bundle of fabric in the corner of the kennel squirmed. Ariel froze, her eyes wide. When it settled again, she crept forward. The little mound was too small to be one of the hounds. Ariel had almost missed it when she wandered in that morning. It had still been dark outside, then, though the dogs were already being put through their paces by their handlers. At first, she’d thought the bundle was just a pile of blankets that needed to be taken for laundering… until she had realized that it was breathing._

_Curiously, she nudged the lump with the toe of her shoe. It shifted only a little. Frowning, she nudged it harder, and gave a strangled squeak when a small hand darted out from beneath the pile of blankets to grab her ankle. Her arms wind milled as she tumbled backward, kicking out with her other foot. A muffled yelp came from beneath the blankets, followed by wild flurry of motion. She scrambled back until she could take cover behind one of the barrels of dog feed. Cautiously, she peered out just as a head emerged from the pile of raggedy blankets._

_It was a boy. He couldn’t be much older than Ariel herself. He had messy reddish blonde hair and straight, expressive brows only a little darker in color. There was a smudge across his nose and cheeks that only got worse when he wiped a sleeve across his nose and gave a sniff. “You kicked me,” he pouted at her, “I didn’t do anything to you and you kicked me.” He began working to untangle himself from the bundle. He was taller than her; but Ariel was used to that. Elves were already smaller than humans and she was the smallest girl for her age in the whole Alienage._

_“You grabbed me,” she shot back. Not, of course, that she had been scared._

_“Only after you kicked me,” the boy argued._

_“I nudged you. I didn’t know what you were.”_

_“You could have asked,” kicking off the last clinging tentacle of blankets, he turned to face her, head tilting, eyes curious. “Hey, why are you hiding? I’m not that scary, am I?”_

_Ariel did her best to look fearless, baring her teeth. In the dim light of early morning, she knew her eyes had to be shining brightly. “I wasn’t scared. I’m not afraid of anything!”_

_The boy gave a lopsided grin, “Oh, good. You’ll come out then, won’t you?”_

_Despite her insistence that she wasn’t frightened, Ariel was slow to emerge. The boy didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to grab her again. He merely stood there, pulling bits of straw from his clothing, which was plain, but of good quality. “Why are you sleeping here? Wouldn’t you rather sleep in a bed? The hounds snore.”_

_The boy nodded, “And they slobber when they dream. And they kick a lot harder than you do. But, Lady Isolde said that the extra rooms are for honored guests. I am just a bastard.”_

_Ariel wrinkled her nose, “Is that the Arl’s new wife? I don’t like her. She is mean. She says I am not allowed in the house either, not even if I stay with my mamae,” she looked back at the barrel behind which she had been hiding, another thought coming to her. “Does she make you eat the dog food, too?” There were worse things. Ariel thought that the Arl’s dogs probably got better food than she ate every night. Still, though, it was for _dogs._ Reaching into one of her pockets, she pulled out a gooey, sticky, misshapen mound that had, very recently, been a perfectly shaped sweet cake. “Here. My mamae made this. They are the best in the world.”_

_The boy accepted it, and, after eying it carefully for a moment, decided it wasn’t poisonous and broke it into two pieces. She took the half he offered her. They ate in companionable silence. Then he swallowed and held out one sticky hand. “My name is Alistair.”_

_She shook his hand with the kind of hygienic disregard that might have suggested they were not, in fact, both covered to their wrists in frosting. “I’m Vellariel, but my friends call me Ariel.”_

_”Do you want to see something neat, Ariel?” the boy offered happily. Kneeling beside his little mound of dirty, ragged blankets, he began digging. His smile was broad when he turned to show her the small wooden sword that had been hidden. “Eamon gave this to me, isn’t it wonderful?”_

\----------------------------

_9:41 Dragon: The Crossroads, Hinterlands_

Ariel couldn’t help but smile as she looked, for probably the hundredth time, out the mouth of her tent to see if the king and his company had yet arrived. That meeting, when she had been four years old, had been the start of a friendship that had lasted right up until Alistair had been sent for schooling in the Chantry four years later. The day he had told her of his departure, she’d been eight and it had felt like her heart was going to break. She could still remember the taste of her tears, the abject remorse on his young face, when he’d tried to comfort her, awkwardly patting her shoulder in a way that only made the tears flow harder. _”Ariel, please don’t cry. Please. I’ll come back. I promise.”_ It had been a sweet vow, one that could only have been made in innocence. It was certainly not one he could have ever hoped to keep. 

_”But, you’ll be a Templar… you’ll hunt people like me.”_

_“I won’t! I could never hunt you. You aren’t like…” he lowered his voice, looking about to make sure he hadn’t been heard, “Like those witches in the stories who swoop down on people.”_

Ariel had shaken her head. _”Of course not. Swooping is bad.”_

Alistair nodded and continued. _”Besides, we’re friends. We will always be friends, right? Here, I’ll prove it to you. Take this.”_ And he had given her his prized miniature golem doll; the third party to so many of their adventures… Sometimes he was the villain, and they would take turns rescuing one another from the fierce stone captor. Other times, he was a strange steed that they would charge into battle on. On a very rare occasion, he was a she, and played the part of the damsel that needed rescuing and Ariel and Alistair would have to play rock, parchment, sheers in order to determine which of them was the hero and which was the villain. _”I want you to have him. He’ll protect you until I come back.”_

_”I don’t need protecting”_ Even so, she’d tucked the little doll under her arm. _”Promise you’ll come back? Cross your heart?”_ she’d asked. Alistair had puffed out his chest and nodded confidently, swiping his finger over his heart deftly. 

_”Of course! The Adventures of Alistair and Ariel, right? It wouldn’t be the same without you.”_

She’d given him her bravest smile even though it had felt like her world was crumbling. _”I should hope not.”_

As was so often the case, their childhood plans hadn’t quite panned out. Alistair hadn’t become a Templar after all. Instead, he’d been conscripted into the Gray Wardens and was one of two who had worked so hard to end the Blight before it could spread beyond the borders of Ferelden. Then he’d gone on to become king. And she… Ariel shook her head. It was only years later that Ariel had come to learn that Alistair had, indeed, gone back to the Alienage. It had always seemed some cruel twist of fate, that he’d been only two days too late to save her and her little sister. When she’d first heard the news of what had happened, Ariel had been bitter, angry. In her battered, seventeen year old mind, she had convinced herself that Alistair had let her down. For many years, she had harbored that resentment. In the end, though, it had taken too much energy to keep blaming him. 

A pair of thick fingers snapped in front of her face, causing her to jolt backwards in surprise. Rubbing her nose, Ariel glared at the grinning gray face of the Iron Bull, who tilted his horned head toward the table that was set between herself, the Qunari, and Varric. Glancing down, she considered the cards in her hand before giving a sigh and tossing them, face down, on the table. “I’m out,” she grumbled. Before she could lean back, however, both the mercenary and the rogue straightened, eyes sharp.

“What is that?” Varric asked, tone deceptively mild. 

Ariel quirked one brow. “That would be my losing hand. Surely you can’t be that surprised you’ve one every bloody game so far.”

“No, Boss,” sausage sized fingers closed with surprising gentleness around one of her forearms. With his free hand, the Bull pushed back her sleeve and held her hand up in front of her face. “He means _this?_ ”

She couldn’t help it; she winced. There, darkening what was otherwise skin so pale that it might have glowed in the dark, was an angry purple imprint of a large hand. “Uh, well… the Commander and I have been sparring, in the mornings, before he puts the soldiers through their paces. Things got a little… out of hand, the other day.” 

“Curly?” Varric seemed genuinely surprised.

“It’s fine, really. I’ve been hurt worse than this in the field,” Ariel said, not sure why she was suddenly painfully self-conscious about a small injury that, to be frank, she had forgotten about up until that point. She tugged her wrist from the mercenary’s grasp, and pulled her sleeve back down.

“You’ve been hurt by the enemy in the field,” Varric corrected, exchanging glances with the Bull. “But this… What in the name of Andraste’s ass was he thinking?” He shook his head, frowning. “This is a mark that comes from being man-handled.”

“Maybe I should have a talk with our Commander,” the Bull ventured. The way he flexed his fingers said that he wasn’t thinking much about talking at all. 

“Oh, Maker’s blood, will you two please stop acting like a pair of over-protective big brothers? I accidentally shot a spell at him; he reacted without thinking. It was only for a moment and he’s already apologized. Several times.” She stood up, hands on her fists, glowering. “If I hear that either of you have tried to bully Cullen over this –“ she paused, hunting for an appropriate threat and finding none that she believed would convince either of the men. “Just leave it alone.“ With that, she turned on her heel and ducked out of the tent. She was tired of losing at cards anyway.

Varric stood soon after, a chuckle rumbling from his hairy chest. “Over-protective brothers, mh?”

The Bull flipped over the discarded cards on the table, studying them absently. “Obviously, I got all the good looks.”

“Story of my life. Guess I’ll have to accept being the smart one; a burden I’ve gotten used to bearing.”

The Bull gave a smirk, “And just what does that make our sister?”

Varric grinned broadly, just before he, too, exited the tent. “A very poor sport.”

Just then, the horn blew to announce the approach of the king’s party. 

Moments later, King Alistair Theirin arrived riding over the crest of the hill on a horse with such neat, strong lines that it could only have been one of Dennet’s. He dismounted with a second-natured ease that spoke of long familiarity astride. Everyone in Ferelden, it seemed, except for Ariel, was a decent seat. Almost immediately, two Mabari flowed from out of the settling dust to take up places at his side, matching his pace as he approached, their gazes watchful but not unfriendly. 

Though it was usually Josephine’s task to greet dignitaries and ambassadors, it was Leliana who emerged from the tent and made her way to greet the king. She swept into a regal bow that spoke of all her years as a bard, and which seemed to amuse Alistair, whose lips twitched before he held out his hands. The Spymaster grasped them and moved forward to brush cheeks with the king before she tugged him toward Ariel. 

“Your Majesty,” she said in her sweet, clear voice, “Allow me to introduce our lady, Vellariel Lavellan, the Herald of Andraste.” 

Ariel did her best to mimic the Spymaster’s sweeping bow, though she was used to a slightly more prone posture. 

“None of that,” he said, motioning for her to straighten. His lopsided grin was every inch the boy she remembered, even if there was very little of that coltish youth to be found in this mature, handsome young king otherwise. He took her hands in both of his, holding her at arm’s length as though for inspection. “You got big, Ariel. You’ve come a long way from swinging golem dolls into the faces of bullies,” he remarked wryly. 

Ariel grinned. He’d always been able to get that much out of her. “You got bigger, my liege. I bet nobody forces you to sleep with the hounds anymore.”

Alistair gave a hearty chuckle, exchanging conspiratorial glances with Leliana, “I will have to introduce you to my wife some time. You might be surprised. Besides,” he lowered his voice and leaned toward her conspiratorially, “You try and keep these two out of bed. By the way, if you call me my liege again, I will see to it that you get none of the cakes my kitchen sent along with me. Alistair was always fine. Tell me that much hasn’t changed.”

Ariel nodded, if uncertainly. “That much hasn’t… but it seems everything else has.” She had gotten so used to thinking of him as Alistair, King of Ferelden, instead of Alistair, her the boy who slept with the hounds. Then again, she was the Herald of Andraste; that, it seemed, was a mantle that she would be saddled with no matter what she said about it. Perhaps it wasn’t so very different for Alistair.

They retreated back into the tent that was being used as a portable war room. It was larger, than all the others, mounted on long, narrow poles that had been hammered into the muddy ground to ensure that even the Commander wouldn’t have to duck in order to enter. Yet, when Ariel came inside, followed by Alistair and Leliana, duck he did; at least, to the elf’s eyes, that was how it seemed. Really, all he did was lower his head and his eyes, but Ariel was used to seeing him with his eyes up, meeting any who looked upon him, his strong, rough, stubble-shadowed chin parallel to the ground. Unconsciously, she pulled her sleeves down until they all but covered her knuckles. 

“We have received further word from the Magister,” Josephine said, once greetings were made, “He wishes to meet with the Herald in order to discuss further negotiations for an alliance with Tevinter.” 

Ariel felt herself start. If she had been a cat, she was certain her hackles would have risen. “He _what?!_ ” she burst out vehemently, “That is out of the question!” The very thought of it made her blood boil. 

“We aren’t suggesting you actually meet with them to negotiate… but if you are standing in front of this Alexius’ face, he won’t be inclined to see the knife hovering over his shoulder,” Leliana said, crossing her arms. “I know a way into the castle, one that was little used ten years ago and is even less so, now that the windmill where the entrance is has fallen into disrepair. I would propose that you meet with this Magister, keep him distracted. Meanwhile, I we will have some of our agents sneak in.”

“I will go with them,” Alistair said, “It’s been some time, but I still remember the way of it. And I’m familiar with the castle.”

“I don’t like this,” Cullen’s voice was surprisingly strong. For the first time since their mishap during training, he met Ariel’s gaze. “You should not be going in alone, not with who knows how many Venatori present. Its too dangerous.”

“If I may, I might be able to offer some assistance,” a voice spoke from the mouth of the tent; one that was sickeningly familiar. Ariel had to bite down on her lip to keep from groaning in dismay. Whether she wanted to admit it or not – she didn’t - there was no denying that Dorian Pavus would likely be a valuable asset in this situation. She didn’t have the luxury of being choosy. 

Not long after, they were ready to put their plan into motion. Ariel would agree to meet with the Magister in order to discuss negotiations which were never going to happen. They spent the most time discussing whom the party that would accompany her would consist of. Cullen’s voice was the loudest when it came to this matter, though, usually, they tended to let her select, herself, whom she thought was the most fitting for a task. In the end, they settled on the Iron Bull – who, by the nature of his past, was familiar with Tevinter agents and their tactics – Cassandra, who had some of the same abilities as a Templar, and Vivienne, because her expertise at playing the Grand Game that was the Orlesian political world made her useful in any sort of meeting that was certain to revolve around deceptive negotiations. That, combined with the fact that Alistair, with his Templar training, would be meeting up with them eventually managed to pacify even Cullen; but only just. Ariel had to agree… she could think of any number of places – really, everywhere – that she would rather be than here. She kept that thought to herself. She had to appear confident, after all. 

As the two teams prepared to part ways, Alistair drew her a small distance away. “Since I’ve become king, my advisors all expect me to display at least a modicum of dignity,” his voice was grave, but his amber eyes glittered playfully, “But, I have to admit, I would pay good coin to see you swing that old golem doll into the Magister’s face.”

Ariel stumbled a little as she laughed heartily. Her grin didn’t fade until they reached the front gates to Redcliffe Castle.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste and her friends march into a fortress full of cultists whose polite invitation could only mean one thing: they have every intention of seeing her dead. 
> 
> \--In Hushed Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My extended version of what happened after marching into Redcliffe Castle. Originally, this portion of the quest was going to be just one chapter. However, in terms of character and relationship development, it works better as two (or more, I don't know for sure yet).
> 
> There are some references to be found here to the graphic novels, The Silent Grove, Those who Speak, and Until we Sleep. If you haven't read them, I highly, highly recommend them. They are wonderful and give some beautiful insight into some of my favorite characters from the series.

"And so, the determined elven prophet, in possession of the alien mark that could be the only hope for all the world, walked into the well-guarded fortress full of fanatic cultists who are obsessed with her... even I would have trouble talking her out of that one."

"Not now, Varric," Cullen muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and staring in the direction of Redcliffe Castle. From where they stood, just outside the broken and crumbling old mill, he could just make her out in the distance; a tiny shape. The gate was lifting and it seemed to Cullen like it was the maw of some ravenous beast set to swallow her whole. _Turn around, Ariel. It isn't too late._ Except it was. He had seen it in her eyes. He knew it and so did she. 

He let out his breath quietly as she disappeared, the gate dropping behind her. She was beyond him now. He had to trust in the Maker and in their agents. _Andraste guide her._ Spinning on his heel, he strode over the carpet of decade old rubble and debris to the heart of the decrepit building, where Alistair was wrenching up the trap door with a grunt of effort. He was giving instructions to his soldiers to be ready to march on the castle as soon as the gate lifted. 

"I'll be going with you, oh king," Varric said following along in Cullen's footsteps. "You'll be hard pressed to sit your ass on the throne if you get it blown to pieces by stepping on a pressure plate down there." 

Alistair paused kneeling over the opening, one brow lifting toward his hairline and one edge of his mouth twitching beneath the shadow of stubble. "One day, Varric, we really must discuss your habit of making comments about my weight." His voice was wry, as if this was an ongoing joke between the two of them. Cullen envied them their good humor. He felt like a thundercloud might have taken up permanent residence in his chest. 

The king disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the faint sound of his boots thudding as he followed along after the Spymaster. He didn't have quite Leliana's talent for silence or invisibility. Templars were trained to be seen and heard. Dorian moved to follow, making the descent into the dank, damp undercroft of the palace look like a stroll following afternoon tea. 

Before he could think, Cullen reached out and grabbed the man's clothing in one fist, drawing him near enough to hear without everyone else being able to eavesdrop. Except Varric, of course, who casually took a step toward them, managing to make it look as though he wasn't at all interested but merely adjusting his boot. "You helped to develop this magic," Cullen rumbled. The thundercloud in his chest had a voice, it seemed, "And if things turn ugly, I will hold you personally accountable." Not that it would matter, at that point. They would all be lost. 

The mage studied his expression closely. There had been a time when being so close in proximity to a mage he didn't know - particularly one from a culture known to have very liberal notions on the subject of demons and blood magic - would have made him cringe. Now, he stood steadfast, meeting Dorian's gaze inch for inch, letting him see the fierce truth of what he had said. 

Had his dignity allowed it, he might have sputtered when Dorian gave a smirk and reached up to pinch his cheek. "Never you fear, dear man! I'll see your woman returned to you whole and free of any unwelcome passengers." Then, with a flamboyant, sweeping bow, the mage was gone, whistling a jaunty tune as he followed along after the king. 

_My woman,_ Cullen thought incredulously, staring after Dorian with a frown, _That is not what I meant. Not at all._ He shook his head and had to physically restrain himself from running a hand over the back of his neck. 

Varric was still standing there. Now, he was pretending to adjust his gloves; apparently, they required quite a lot of attention. He didn't look at Cullen, but his voice had that edge that said he knew more than he was letting on. "Don't worry too much about the Herald, Curly. She's a bit green when it comes to experience, but she's clever and tougher than she looks." Cullen almost snorted. Nobody needed to tell him that. "She'll last long enough for me to get Alistair to her. He'll make sure we all get out if the mages decide to start inviting any unwelcome guests from the other side."

Oh, how Cullen wished that was more comforting. Yet, he didn't know the king as well as Leliana, or Varric - or Ariel, for that matter, if their familiar manner was anything to go by. He had only met Alistair briefly, after rising to the full rank of a Templar knight, and he had been far from a mental state sound enough to issue judgments of character. Before that... he had known Alistair in training, for a time, and what he remembered was not likely to ease his worry. The boy had never been very accomplished in his studies. At best, he'd been half-hearted. Still... the man had helped to end the Blight and along the way he had also assisted in ending an undead siege on Redcliffe, a werewolf epidemic in the forest, a civil war in Orzammar, and had, almost as a side note, conquered the demon-ridden Circle Tower. Maybe it was comforting after all, that he would be with the Herald. 

As for Varric... Cullen's memories of Kirkwall were still crisp and fresh. It didn't take much effort to muster up confidence in his - and Bianca's - abilities.

"See it done, dwarf." 

Varric was slinging Bianca over his shoulder now and beginning his own descent into the tunnel. "Will do. And Curly?" Again he paused, and this time, his eyes found Cullen's. "The girl has scars. So do you. Neither of you should beat yourselves up too much for bristling when they get stomped on. But know, if it becomes a habit... well, Bianca might just become one of your many admirers."

What was that supposed to mean? Considering the reference, it couldn't be good. Cullen was still trying to puzzle it out when Varric gave a wink and a wave and then he, too, disappeared into the shadows. Cullen turned to one of his men. "I want eyes on that entrance at all times, do you understand? If so much as a rat rears its head, down there, I want to hear of it."

The man snapped to attention, fist at his breast. "Commander!" 

Nodding, just once, Cullen turned and made his way down the hill. Even here, the reports followed him; the watchtowers that Dennet had requested had spotted activity in the gully, a number of apostates had emerged from hiding to help refugees, a handful of survivors, now that their farms were safe, wished to send supplies or recruits to the Inquisition. Everywhere, Ariel's influence showed. 

_Maker, bring her back._

\-----------------------

Spells flew, steel rang. The two startled Venatori guards fell face down in the knee-deep water that flooded whatever dank, grimy place the portal had sent them to. 

Alistair sheathed his sword, frowning. "Why do we even make plans? They never turn out, not like they're supposed to. Not ever." His stern gaze rolled upward toward a ceiling so covered in filth that it was barely discernible from the darkness. That didn't matter, his glare was meant for a being far beyond that. _This is your doing and I'm holding you fully responsible,_ he grumped at the long absent deity. 

A cry of outrage rudely interrupted his scolding of the Maker, though he did manage to add, _Don't go anywhere. I'm not finished with you, yet. We will continue this later, believe me._ Alistair turned just in time to see a tiny female shape hurtling at the dark-skinned, mustachioed mage. Dorian was so startled that he went flailing backward. There was murder written across Ariel's face as she started trying to force his head under the filthy water that had to be swimming with... Alistair put that thought away abruptly. He didn't want to know. 

"You Blightborn, gutless son of a whoring desire demon-spawned..." Ariel was snarling, fighting to push Dorian's head under. Unfortunately, the human was larger than her by far and was proving difficult to subdue. 

With a sigh, Alistair waded over, though, really, he might have been otherwise inclined to watch his childhood friend try to drown the Tevinter. Instead, he hooked an arm around her narrow waist and hauled her off, ignoring her wildcat yowl of fury. "Easy, easy!" He barked, as he might have at one of his two Mabari companions, descendants of his wife's faithful hound. Setting her on her feet, Alistair caught Ariel's shoulders between his hands, both to look into her face, and to keep her from hurling herself at Dorian again. Even in this dim light, he could see it. There was fury, in her eyes, so intense it was almost savage. Beneath that, there was fear. 

He snapped his fingers twice in front of those glazed wild eyes. Slowly, they came into focus on his hand as he lifted it to a level with his face, making her meet his gaze. Her hands curled around his wrists tightly. "Alistair..." A shudder rippled through her and sanity returned, whatever memory she had been caught in giving up its hold. The fury was still there, though. So was the fear.

"Believe me, I am no fan of Tevinters... particularly not Magisters and their ilk-"

"Oh, for the love of... I am _not_ a Magister-" Dorian scoffed, pushing his sopping hair out of his face, as if he could recreate whatever over kempt thing had been done to it before. 

Alistair spoke over him, "And, if it were up to me, you and I would be playing tug-of-war with his hide. However, since it was Tevinter magic that got us here, perhaps we ought not to murder the only Vint-" Eamon would have his mouth washed out if he heard Alistair using such uncouth slang, "That might be willing to help us." 

Her eyes closed. Ariel seemed to gather herself and gave a curt, if petulant, nod. She was still angry though. He thought, if he looked hard enough, he could see that angry, delicate chord of her vein in her neck standing out, similar to the way his wife's did when she was angry and suppressing it. When she opened her eyes again, they were clear and determined. She still sounded sulky though. "Alright. Where are we?" 

"Ahem," Dorian had, in fact, _somehow_ managed to regain some semblance of composure... had even managed to push his hair back into place. "I believe that we are, in fact, still in Redcliffe Castle, though our location might have shifted slightly. The more pressing question, I believe, is _when_ are we?"

Right; time magic. Bloody fabulous. 

Ariel shrugged off Alistair's hands and leaned against her staff, casting her gaze around. Everything felt... off, wrong; like a song being sung out of tune. Try as she might, she just couldn't tell. "Is he right, Alistair? Are we still in the castle?"

The former Gray Warden and King of Ferelden was looking about, squinting at every detail as if that would put things into clearer focus. "I think so, I've crept through these dungeons enough to know them when I see them.” Alistair said slowly, his expression troubled. Then he shook his head. “But, they aren’t supposed to be this way. If we’ve traveled through time, then it can’t be the past. Teagan would never have allowed any of this, and Eamon certainly wouldn’t have stood for it. Even when Connor was possessed, the castle itself was mostly intact." 

“The future, then, perhaps. A future where our green-handed, quick-fisted friend here was removed from the timeline,” Dorian proposed. 

Ariel swallowed thickly, her heart attempting to crawl into the pit of her stomach. A timeline where there had been no Anchor to close the Breach. It could be exactly what they were working so hard, fighting so hard, to prevent. "Well..." Ariel murmured weakly, using the butt end of her staff to steer away one of the fallen guards’ bodies. "Shit." 

None of them cared to linger in the dank cell discussing the theoretical possibilities that were presented by this unchecked scenario. The discordant hum that seemed to course through the air, saturating the very stone that the castle was constructed of was unnerving. It seemed to affect them all on a physical level. There wasn’t time to waste, if they were in the future, it couldn’t be a good one, and it certainly wasn’t one to tarry in. 

They ransacked the small cell that they had appeared in, finding little of use; some discarded trinkets, a few scraps of rusting armor, broken pottery. There wasn’t anything useful to help them get through the castle unchecked. Until, reluctantly, Ariel spoke up. 

“The guards,” she offered. The words were hard on her tongue. She might as well have been chewing gravel. 

“The guards?” Alistair prompted, when she didn’t continue. 

Dorian caught on right away though. He gave a slow bout of applause, which made Ariel wrinkle her nose. She didn’t think it was a particularly pleasant plan, but it was the only one they really had available. “The guards are Tevinter,” she said, “Which means the Vints still have the castle, wherever - whenever - we are. There will be more, dressed just like that; probably by the dozens. Nobody will notice one more.”

“Just the one? What, are the other two going to wait here, quietly playing Wicked Grace while the other goes to investigate?” Alistair asked lightly, though his humor seemed more routine than genuine. “Because, if that’s the case, I think I saw a pack of cards around here somewhere. They might be a bit waterlogged, but they’ll do.”

Ariel gave a bitter smile. “One more… and his faithful attendants in tow to tend to his needs.” Maker, how she hated the Imperium.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste, the King of Ferelden, and a Tevinter mage all walk into the future... the Maker has a dark sense of humor, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels like it took forever! I am posting it from my phone, so please overlook any editing I missed. Enjoy!

“I can’t breath in this thing,” Alistair’s voice was muffled behind the Tevinter mask that one of the guards had been wearing. As luck would have it, one of them had been almost exactly Alistair’s height and built, though the king was having a hard time agreeing that it was a lucky happenstance.

“So sorry,” Dorian said in a voice absolutely void of any sincere apology. He was spending an awful long time fussing over the arrangement of the garments that Alistair had reluctantly donned over his armor. “It’s necessary. You have this distinctly Ferelden look about you and I’m afraid you’d give us away immediately if anyone had a look at your face.”

“I thought the people of Tevinter were more diverse than that.”

“Oh, in complexion and feature, perhaps. But your expression is far too expressive! Nobody in the Imperium is honest enough to wear what is happening in their heads all over their faces the way you southerners do. It’s indecent; like showing up for war completely naked. You can’t go traipsing about without the proper armor, can you?” He paused, then added with a smirk, “Though, I’m sure many would appreciate the view. I’ve heard tales, after all, about the gorgeous Bastard King of Ferelden. Would you like to hear some of them?”

Alistair muttered behind his mask, almost to himself, “I think I prefer Varric’s fat jokes.” Then he added, “Why don’t you play the slaver, then? This wouldn’t even be dress-up, for you. Just another day of kicking people around like… like…”

“Like dogs?” Dorian supplied helpfully. 

“Fereldens would _never_ kick their dogs.” 

“Of course not. You prefer to invite them into bed. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Ferelden who wasn’t covered from shoulder to boot in Mabari fur. However, there are two reasons why I’m not swathed and masked. The first, is that the guards who attacked, are soparati.”

“Sopa-what?”

“Soparati. Sleepers,” said Ariel, who had just appeared down the stairs. It had been a few hours since they had found themselves in the dungeon and she had been spending almost the entire time observing guard rotations. Since she was the smallest, and the one who had actual experience being a slave, she was the most equipped to slink about without being noticed, so long as she kept her left hand covered and her Fade-green eyes down. They were, apparently, distinctive and the Venatori, Dorian assured her, had taken special note of that. “Non-magical citizens of the Imperium.”

“Oh.” Really, he ought to have been paying more attention when Eamon had been trying to teach him the intricacies of Tevinter culture and politics. But his queen had been wearing that blue dress he loved so much, the one that hugged her shape all the way down to her hips, and he hadn’t been able to focus. Besides, how could he be expected to keep all these strange, tangled strands of overlapping social tiers straight? It was almost as bad as Orlesian politics, notably referred to as the Grand Game. It was not an apt title, he thought. Games were meant to be fun. From what he understood, in Olrais, losers of The Game usually ended up dead.

Dorian continued, smoothing his hands up Alistair’s back and shoulders. Again. “Precisely. And the second reason why you, my handsome bastard king, are the one who gets to own us, is because I was Alexius’ apprentice for years. I knew all of his peers. If any of them are still lounging about the castle, they would recognize my voice and bearing immediately.”

Alistair sighed heavily. He swatted away Dorian’s hands - hands which reminded him too much of Zevran’s cheerful - and highly uncomfortable - wandering, when the elf had helped him into his wedding attire, and reached up to push the mask up to rest on the top of his head. Ariel was perched on the bottom of the steps, her green eyes nearly aglow in the dim lighting. She had what was left of their two staves in her lap, adding a few final touches. They had quickly decided that, while they couldn’t carry full staves, they couldn’t very well be completely unarmed. Alistair had hacked off most of the length. Together, Ariel and Dorian had bound the head and the blades of both staves to produce miniature versions of the original constructions that should, they believed, maintain most of the originals’ integrity. Of course, that was only a theory.

Alistair wasn’t keen to question them. Ariel had maintained her hostility towards Dorian even after seeing the sense of letting him live. He couldn’t really blame her, when he thought about it, but she was smart enough to realize that they would have to work together. Even so, whenever she caught herself proposing an idea at the same time as the other mage, she looked like she might have preferred to bite her own tongue off. Sadly, that seemed to happen quite frequently. Ariel was not a trained mage, but it seemed that she’d been stealing knowledge from her masters for as long as she’d been a slave, and tucking it away, forming her own theories, her own ideas about how things did and, frighteningly, how things could work given certain theoretical circumstances. The possibilities that came with unchecked magical practice made Alistair’s skin go cold, but he kept his mouth shut. Unorthodox magic had gotten them here. It was their only hope of getting out. 

First, they had to find that damnable charm that the zealot had used to send them here in the first place. Which meant braving the rest of the castle and its crazed fanatics and who knew how many demons bound to them. Tevinter only ever paid lip service to the ban on blood magic. If Alistair had learned nothing else from Eamon’s teachings, it was that. 

“The guards rotate every hour,” Ariel said. Standing, she balanced the miniaturized staff she had just finished working on across the palm of her hand. Then, giving a satisfied nod, she threw it, with all of her might, at Dorian. He gave an ‘oof’ and an oath, but Ariel was already continuing, almost casually. “Every hour, that is, except for this time of day… they’ve all gone off somewhere, with the exception of two sentries guarding the doors to the other cell blocks. Something about… worshipping the new god.” Ariel gave a shudder, tucking her own miniaturized staff into the back of her belt, under the fall of the fabric she wore. It wasn’t as tattered as Alistair would have expected. Dorian and Ariel had both said something about how the state of a persons’ slaves said a lot about their master. 

“Then now’s the time,” Alistair said, sheathing his sword. 

“It can’t be long before they realize that these two,” Dorian gestured to the bodies that they had stuffed in the corner, “Are missing.”

“Then we have to go fast. No dawdling,” Ariel said. Then she gave Dorian a viciously accessing look. “You.”

He blinked at her serenely. “Me?”

“You,” she repeated firmly. Alistair wondered if she realized that she was rubbing her hands together like some fabled vilain right out of the stories. “Alistair already bears himself like a master, whether he wants to admit it or not. You, though… you do too. We can’t have that. You have to cringe and shrink.” Ariel grinned. The king was only glad that expression wasn’t turned on him; too much like the look she had cast at the children who would try to bully her when she was little. Right before she wielded that golem doll as a weapon. “Shall I teach you how?”

By the time they were done, she was calmly wrapping the bondings around her left hand again, humming to herself, while Dorian muttered and cursed her under his breath, rubbing the knot on his head. 

“The guards above, just changed shifts,” Ariel said, pulling Alistair’s hood, with its ridiculous spikes, up over his head and pushing his mask into place. “Now is the time to go. They’ll question you, but they won’t know for sure whether someone was down here already or not. The last should have told them, but some information always slips through the cracks. Act like you own this place.”

Alistair growled, “Not hard. I _do_ own this place. Well…. Teagan owns it, but still…Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The disguises they donned did their trick and they were able to conduct their preliminary investigations without engaging in any unneeded violence. They didn’t have to search too far, in order to unearth the answers they were looking for. They didn’t even try to leave the dungeons, at first. Prisoners were often jailed for a reason; either because they knew too much or because they were dangerous… in this case, it turned out to be both. The first one they found was the former Grand Enchanter Fiona, canting there against the wall of her cell, broken and helpless. Her skin was as thin and brittle as old parchment, with angry red sores glistening grotesquely in the sickening glow of the red lyrium crystals that sprouted from what was left of her. There was no hope of saving her.

Ariel felt the tide of horror and despair washing over her. No matter how angry she had been, how many times she had imagined wringing the Grand Enchanter’s neck when she lay awake at night, trying to wish herself to some conclusion about what to do about the Magister’s contract with the Ferelden mages, she had never wanted _this._ Even in her blackest moments of malice, moments when her past roared through her and left her, even for a moment, an ugly, bitter creature that she couldn’t recognize, a creature she was afraid of… she would never have wished this on anybody. Death would have been far kinder. 

The Elder One… two words when put together were an even uglier thing than Magister. Her master had been seduced by the cult of this pretender god. It had led him down a path of depravity. In the end, he’d been quite insane. Endless hours he had spent, muttering to himself, hunched over books and journals, scribbling notes. Ariel had often studied his writings, when the candle burned low and his eyes, red and glassy, had slipped closed finally. Over the years, it was the only real tutelage in magic she had ever had. At the end though… the rituals he had been describing were enough to make her blood curdle, enough to have her waking to the sound of her own screams at night when the nightmares of it had descended upon her. 

And all for this? For this red future where death was mercy only because it meant you hadn’t lost yourself to the insanity? If he hadn’t have perished at the Conclave… that very likely could have been her, in Fiona’s cell, dying so those zealots could harvest her corrupted organs.

Stomach churning, Ariel turned and fled blindly from the cell block. She didn’t get far before her knees gave way and she slumped against the wall, silent sobs wracking her body. At least she managed to keep her stomach from purging.

Unbidden, a verse drifted through her mind; one of the Threnodies of the Chant of Light. _’Those who had been cast down, those who would be gods, began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth, and the men of Tevinter heard, and raised altars to the pretender gods once more and in return were given, in hushed whispers, the secrets of darkest magic.’_

It wasn’t a verse that was spoken often in the Imperium for obvious reasons. But she remembered it from before, when she and Kelsie had been left to their own devices and had stood, peering around the Chantry board, listening to the sisters. Some verses had stuck in her mind, ones that were more like fanciful tales; which she had later acted out with Alistair or Kelsie, or which she had turned over in her mind at night, adding what she liked and ignoring what she didn’t until the tale no longer resembled the original Chant. This one… it was like the worst of them come true. 

It was like drowning. Or like being back in that snow cave, with half the mountain pressing down on her from all sides, certain that there was no hope. The red lyrium hummed its discordant tune and Ariel clasped her hands over her ears to block it out. Unbidden, another voice rose in her mind, from back in that cave, deep and ragged, a steady rumble beneath her cheek. _Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure._ He wouldn’t have stopped fighting, not the Commander, nor would Cassandra, nor Leliana… none of them would have given up. Not for a heartbeat. Yet still, one year passed, and this bleak wasteland of a future was upon the world. It could only mean one thing. 

The Inquisition had failed. The Maker had not intervened. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” a cultured voice drawled, causing her to jump nearly out of her skin. Magic surged through her body, crackling and static beneath her skin, causing the fine hairs on her arms to stand on end. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. She hadn’t realized that Dorian had followed her and was now lounging there against the grimy wall, a safe distance from the range of her fists. “After all, if your people are to be believed, the Maker sent you.”

She looked down at her left hand. The Anchor was concealed, but she could still feel it pulsing dormantly. “And, then the Magister sent me away.” The Maker outplayed by a Venatory radical.

“He sent you ahead.” Dorian’s voice was firm. She grimaced. Ahead. Away. She still hadn’t been there to help stop this… infection before it had spread to the rest of the world. There was the sound of footsteps approaching, fast. She tensed, but Dorian was already there, swatting away her hands and grabbing her chin in a grip so firm that it hurt, forcing her to look into his face. Despite his composure, his eyes were fierce. “You are still our best hope. Indeed, you might very well be our only hope. The Inquisition needs a heart, a beacon to guide it through the storm and you, my dear, are it. Without you, of course it crumbled. Now, you know what’s at stake. You’ll fight harder for all of us. If you must rally beneath a banner of faith to see you through on your path, then consider this; the Maker let you see what would happen, if we failed. It is a heavy burden, this duty, heavier than a mountain. Are you going to let it crush you?” 

She lifted her chin, studying him. His words were like a current, washing away the debris of the dreary tide that had threatened to drown her, leaving her head clear, focused. Determined. “We have to go home. Now.”

“That’s what I thought. Good girl.” Dorian smiled and, to her absolute shock, drew her against his chest into a tight embrace. There was a faint tremor in his posture, indiscernible, until she was pressed against him. He was as terrified as she was, she realized, and just as determined to stop this from happening. In that moment, they weren’t a Tevinter mage and a liberated slave. They were just two people, trapped together, fighting together. 

Alistair emerged from the stairwell, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed, expression grim. He was wiping tainted blood from the blade of his sword. He gave no explanation. Neither Dorian nor Ariel cared to ask for one. “Fiona said that Leliana is locked away somewhere in the castle, along with what is left of your people. I think we ought to pay them all a visit, don’t you?”

Ariel nodded, “It would be rude to do otherwise, when we’ve come so far.” Part of her didn’t want to find the others. The image of Fiona trapped in that cell in her red lyrium casket, waiting to die, would be branded into the backs of her eyelids forever. She didn’t even like Fiona; quite the contrary. To see her friends in a similar state… _This is not going to happen. We won’t let it._

They found Vivienne first, infected, her voice underlayed with that eerie discordant hum, eyes tarnished a wicked red. Even so, she held herself with as much dignity as ever, questioning their appearance with snide disdain, as if all of it was below her and she was only sitting in that cell, with red lyrium beginning to show, scale-like, on the surface of her skin because she had nothing better to do. It was almost a relief, how little she had changed, despite her situation. It gave Ariel hope. The enemy couldn’t destroy everything. They had broken the world, perhaps, but a strong spirit could still persist. 

“You have to admit,” she said weakly, “The old ‘fake your own death, travel through time, rescue your allies’ trick is a classic.” 

Vivienne gave her an appraising once over. “Well, if you’re one of Alexius’ little minions, at least you’re clever. The others are so dreadfully boring.” Her eyes drifted to Alistair, “They’ve never sent an image of Ferelden’s lost king, before. Why should this persuade me? I was Orlesian, a player of the Grand Game… I bore no allegiance to the Crowned Bastard.”

“This is no trap, I’m afraid,” Dorian cut in before Alistair could manage to get whatever was dancing on his tongue to actually fall from his lips. “Alexius accidentally sent us through time.” 

A graceful brow arched in that well-sculpted, polished chestnut face. “He sent you to this time? Was that meant to be a fate worse than death? I suppose that would be an apt fate for the thief ot the Anchor. See what her theft brought about, however unknowingly.Of course, they like to ignore that you could have stopped it, had you not vanished on us.” 

“I can still stop it,” Ariel said firmly, “We just have to get to Alexius-”

“Alexius? Do you really think that stopping him will resolve this? Since your death in the throne room, do you know what’s happened?” 

Alistair crossed his arms and leaned against the wall at his back. His expression hadn’t lost the stony quality it had gained since finding Enchanter Fiona. “Perhaps, if we are done bandying words as if there were no greater concerns, the lady might deign to enlighten us. Not, of course, that I don’t enjoy a witty rejoinder as much as the next bloke.”

The Imperial Enchanter slanted a red-tinted glance at the king and former Grey Warden. “The Venatori assassinated Empress Celene. In the chaos that followed, they invaded Orlais. Their army was not just mages, but demons. Countless demons. The Elder One ascended. There is nothing left.” 

“We will stop this. We will make Alexius pay,” Ariel insisted, clenching her fists so hard that the Anchor crackled and glowed, even through the tight leather bondings she had wrapped around her hand to conceal it, sending green sparks up her arm. 

“Oh, shall we? I doubt it. But I would very much like to hurt something very badly right now,” Vivienne gave an elegant shrug; really, no different than attending Court or an Imperial ball. She even managed to smell decent, though Ariel was certain it must be a spell, or else her own senses were too addled to tell the difference between foul and sweet, in this place. “So, lead the way, my dear. Anywhere is better than this place.”

Maker, they were formidable. Ariel had known it was so, in her own time. Each one of them was more clever, smarter, stronger, more powerful than she was. And yet they followed her bumbling attempts to do as she must, because it was the right thing to do and she was the only one who could do it. And why did she do it? Hence far, it had been merely because the role of Herald of Andraste was one she had fallen into, one that,while it was heavy in its demands, more so than her service in Tevinter had ever been, it also came with freedom. Now… with each new companion they found, each ally who, within moments, accepted the story they presented and fell into line once again, Ariel found herself changing at the deepest, most fundamental level.

It was like waking from a dream, beholding the world, clear and distinct for the first time, after a lifetime of being asleep. 

Cassandra was not far away, reciting the Chant to herself quietly, so lost in the verse that she hadn’t noticed the commotion. Or, perhaps, she simply didn’t care anymore. When she saw Ariel, she began to pray more profusely, reaffirming her faith, apologizing for her weaknesses. But she, too, followed, seeking to help undo the breaking of the world. 

Varric and Iron Bull were housed together, or, at least, as neighbors. The dwarf was telling himself stories, though he seemed confused as to some of the details. And the Bull was idly making his way through a cant of ‘300 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.’ They were the quickest to follow, asking the least amount of questions. What had happened didn’t matter, all that mattered was fixing it. Meanwhile, Ariel choked on her guilt, pressing each image deep into her heart. _Never, never, never, never,_ she vowed. They would not let this red death claim them, this dreary non-life followed by an even drearier death, without even the promise of the Maker’s bosom to bury oneself in. 

“Weapons,” Alistair said, after they had freed the Iron Bull. “You need weapons.” 

“Locked up, but close. They like to show them to us, when they interrogate us,” Varric said, straightening his filthy, ragged gloves. “They like to remind us how helpless we are, without the one weapon that could have made a difference.” He cast a meaningful glance at Ariel.

She forced herself not to look away. “Well, then, shall we turn the game?” 

It was Varric, shrouded in a rapidly altered cloak, to accommodate his size, who left them and returned within the hour, twirling a set of keys around one finger and grinning in a way that was so completely _him_ that Ariel could almost have forgotten the circumstances…. if it wasn’t for that red glow about him, the scaly quality that said he was beginning to succomb to the tainted lyrium, or the discordant hum in his voice. 

“Armor’s looking a bit tight about the chest,” he said to Alistair, tossing the keys to the Iron Bull, who caught them easily with one hand. “Maybe you’ve gone a bit soft?”

Alistair grinned a fierce grin that bared all of his teeth. “Oh Varric, how I missed you.” 

Cassandra studied the king, red gaze calculating. “Don’t you want to know what happened? Why your queen didn’t stop this?”

The former Grey Warden’s eyes were hard, resolved, and opaque. “No. I am sure she tried. My love would never have given up. So, it is apparent she failed. It doesn’t matter. We will stop this or die trying. Either way, I will be with her again.”

“We have to move,” Ariel said, peering up the stairwell frightfully, whatever had called most of the guards away - worship, Varric said - wasn’t going to last forever. “Fast. It won’t be long before they’ve realized the cells have been broken into, they’ve surely discovered the guards we killed already.”

“She’s right,” said Dorian, flipping his miniaturized staff about his fingers, “We must find this Nightingale of yours. Hopefully, she hasn’t been made to sing, yet. Not that she could weave a tune that could give us away.”

Alistair’s eyes were hard as he pulled his sword free, almost eagerly. No reason to hide anymore. “Leliana never sings unless she wants to. And she always hears more than she gives away. I say, it’s high time we go retrieve our songbird.”

The Spymaster - Ariel refused to think of her as the former Spymaster - was being held in chambers above the dungeons. As they ascended, the hum of wrongness that the red lyrium gave off intensified. The whole castle felt dank and humid. Though it wasn’t hot, Ariel found herself sweating. Everywhere she looked, heirlooms and family portraits, imported tapestries and once fine furniture was strewn about or piled in various corners like rubbish. And rubbish itself was strewn about, forgotten. There were few servants to be found, and those who were, had a hopeless, listless look about them that she hadn’t even seen in the Imperium. They barely stirred at the passage of the small horde of escaped prisoners. 

By now, the Venatori had noticed that something was wrong. Ariel could almost feel the rising tension, the alarm that spread before them like rats fleeing the light. There was a squeal of ancient metal, the clang of a drawbridge dropping gracelessly. Ariel turned aside just as the first cast of the Spellbinder hurtled past, nearly hurling herself off the bridge and into the pit below. 

Fury blossomed in her chest, hot and cleansing. She let it take hold of her, let it drive her forward. She flung her arms wide, hands cupped as if she were holding a giant ball. Static sparks ignited at her palms, weaving through her fingers before racing toward one another in two thin, crackling beams to collide just in front of her chest. A searing white bolt hurtled across the bridge to strike at the Spellbinder, leaving him writhing in place, unable to move. His fellows surged around him, advancing on the party. Ariel didn’t see her friends moving, but suddenly there was battle all around her. Eagerly, she dropped into a fighting stance, one that Cullen had taught her, just as one of the zealots charged toward her. A swift movement at the last moment had her shoulder driving into his thigh, destroying his balance and sending him flipping over her back to plummet, howling, into the abyss below. 

Her magic didn’t fail her once. 

By the time they found Leliana dangling from the ceiling, there was no need for stealth. The whole castle had to know they were coming, by now. Ariel found herself staring at the implements on one of the nearby tables as Alistair helped the bard from her chains. The mage felt her stomach churn at how those tools must have constructed the ruin that had once been the redhead’s almost otherworldly beautiful face. _’No weapon is designed evil,’_ her father had once told her. Looking at the wicked contrivance used for these ‘interrogations,’ however, she found herself thinking he must have been wrong. These things could only have been forged with malevolent intent.

“Anger is stronger than any pain,” Leliana said softly when she noticed where Ariel’s attention was focused. “I see you have weapons. Good. The magister is probably in his chambers.”

Dorian stared at the Spymaster’s back as she bent to root around in a nearby chest. Her weapons, too, it seemed, were held nearby in order to taunt her with their nearness. “You... aren’t curious how we got here?” He asked hopefully. Ariel shot him an exasperated glance; really, this was not the time for flaunting his brilliance. 

“No.” Leliana said bluntly. Ariel couldn’t help but smirk at the Tevinter’s crestfallen expression. Maker, was he _pouting?_

Not to be denied his spotlight, Dorian went on to explain anyway. Leliana’s pale gaze was harsh in her ruined face. “And mages always wonder why people fear them,” she spat, “No one should have this power.”

“It’s dangerous and unpredictable,” Dorian agreed. Even he couldn’t defend his former master, on this point. “Before the Breech, nothing we did-”

“Enough!” Leliana growled, pointing an accusatory finger at the dark-skinned mage, “This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. Remember that.”

Ariel didn’t think she would ever be able to forget it, not if she lived to be a hundred; something she very much doubted was likely to happen. 

They were all only too eager to file out of the torture chamber. As they followed the bard, Ariel felt Alistair, at her back, give a low chuckle. “Careful, Dorian, spend much more time with her and you won’t have any ego left for her to stomp on.” 

“Don’t you worry your head over me too much, my fine southern monarch,” strange how one could _hear_ Dorian’s eyes rolling, “My ego is infallible.”

“Why are there so many drawbridges in this castle?” Ariel growled as Varric pilfered the keys from one of the fallen torturers and opened the door so they could spill out into yet another cavernous chamber. “Maker, Eamon raised _children_ in this castle! How did they manage not to totter off and die before adolescence?” 

Alistair harumphed, “I swear, it didn’t look like this when I was a child. They’ve… re-decorated in the last year, it seems.”

“This is not an improvement,” Ariel grumbled. 

“It’s barely a retrogression, my dear,” Dorian murmured in her ear, “You should have seen it before, so many gaudy statues of those brutish dogs you all love so much…”

The Anchor gave a static crackle. When Ariel unwrapped the bindings that had muffled it, it was glowing brightly. “We can talk about architecture and interior design later,” she said, pushing forward to the head of the group just as the rift came into sight. 

After another brief battle, there was a moment of silence among the companions, each of them looking up at the place where the rift had been. “I had almost forgotten…” Cassandra said into the quiet. 

“I hadn’t,” Varric replied, “But, Andraste’s ass, it’s good to see it again.”

The Iron Bull clapped Ariel on the shoulder hard enough to make her stagger. “Good work, boss.”

“I’m hardly your employer, now, Bull,” Ariel said wryly.

The Qunari gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. “My contract was never fulfilled and, considering the sides I have to choose from, I’d rather be at your back than anywhere else. Now, let’s go kick Alexius so hard in his testicles that he chokes on them.”

Of course, finding Alexius and getting to him proved to be two very different tasks. He had, it seemed, taken to barricading himself in his throne room, stricken by paranoia so strong that he didn’t even emerge to eat. AS they hunted for the shards that would fit the lock of the massive, spelled door that he hid behind, they unearthed a few sickeningly fascinating tidbits regarding the research that he had been conducting; experiments on those infected with the Blight, more shameless molestation of the fabric of time and space. Whatever his goal, or his goals, were, however, his tireless work seemed futile and he was getting desperate. 

“When did Felix get infected?”” Alistair asked, reading one of the journal entries that Ariel had flipped to. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Dorian’s voice was deceptively vague, though lacking some of its typical smoothness. 

“I have only ever known a few to study the taint, and ways of slowing its effects, with this much intensity,” the king responded, “It isn’t a hobby one just picks up without a very specific reason. So, tell me how long the Magister’s son has been infected.”

Dorian hesitated a moment, and then quietly told the former Gray Warden the story of how Felix’s mother had been killed in a Darkspawn raid during a trip to Hossberg. Felix had survived the attack, but the wound he carried away would catch up with him eventually. That was when Alexius had changed, that was when his obsession had taken root. That was when he had joined this cult of the Elder One, what this pretender god and his fanatic cult had to do with the Blight… but there was no time to dwell on it. They had to get to the Magister, had to find a way back. They couldn’t afford to think of anything else.

Leliana seemed to agree. Dorian tried to question her regarding what had been done to her, what information she might have picked up in between sessions of torture and abuse. She had no patience for his talk, though, and bluntly refused to participate. She had one single minded point of focus, and that was on Gereon Alexius.

It took hours to locate all four shards, and by the time they had, Ariel felt battered, singed, and heart sick, particularly after finding Connor, who, unwilling to succumb to the mass horde of demons overrunning the world, had taken his own life. Still, her little party looked better than the Venatori agents they had slaughtered. Finally, they had what they needed to get into the throne room, where they found Alexius, drearily staring at a crouching, sickly creature who must once have been a person before his throne. When he saw them, he didn’t start. Didn’t attack. He merely slumped further. 

“I knew you would appear again, not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.”

If Ariel had thought she had come to the pinnacle of things that could shock her, by now, she soon found that she was mistaken. That listless, hunched creature turned out to be none other than Felix Alexius. There was nothing left of that determined boy who had slipped her the note in the tavern, who had told her in the Chantry that he must betray his father because he loved him, because he loved his country, and that meant protecting them both from themselves. The half-man that Leliana put the knife to might as well have been dead already, for all his response. 

And still, the Magister was desperate to save his son. It was the most life he had shown since they’d entered, desperately pleading with the Spymaster to spare the withering husk. He vowed to give her anything, everything she wanted. Her expression was harsh, that ruined face full of vengeance. 

“I want the world back.” And she sliced once, vicious and deep. And Felix Alexius, or what was left of him, was no more. Ariel couldn’t help but think that it was a mercy.

Then it was time to fight for all of their lives. 

\--------------------

_Time is a cruel master._ Ariel thought, watching Dorian kneel to retrieve the little green medallion that had gotten them into this tangle. Everything felt like a race. Alexius had made his misguided decisions, racing to find a cure for his son. Ariel hoped that she wouldn’t find herself in a similar position, regretting everything she had done in her own race to stop this future from ever coming to pass. First, however, they had to race this Elder One. Dorian had said he needed an hour to calculate his spell precisely in order to reopen the rift that had brought them here. The false god was not going to give them that time. The floor rumbled and pitched beneath them, the walls groaning as if they might crumble at any moment. 

The Elder One was coming for them. 

Her companions shared a red, lyrium-infected glance. Then, almost as one, they turned for the doors. “Wait!” Ariel cried, “I can’t let you die for this. There must be another way.”

“Look at us,” Leliana spread her arms, “We’re already dead. The only way to save us is for you to go back and make sure that this never happens.”

“She’s right,” said Alistair, though his voice was tight. He extended a hand toward the Spymaster. She looked at it for a long moment, as if it were something alien. How long had it been since she’d had any human contact that hadn’t hurt? “May you find peace at the Maker’s side at last,” he said. 

Leliana pushed his hand away, and then she was embracing the king, briefly. “Rule well, King Alistair. Be a strong heart for your people. Kiss your wife, for me, when next you see her.” She pulled back and turned toward the door. “Go. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

Ariel’s last image of the Spymaster, was of her being surrounded by demons, fearless and defiant, staring into the eyes of her death. _I promise, I won’t let this happen,_ she vowed, hurtling through the rift, Dorian and Alistair close behind her. 

\------------------------

Felix knelt before the Magister, his smile gentle. “It’s going to be alright, Father,” he promised, even as the soldiers flanked him, ready to haul him away for judgment. 

Alexius didn’t even seem to notice. For all that Dorian had said that Tevinters constructed their expressions the way one might put on armor, the Magister’s naked pain was written plainly across his face. Some feelings were just too powerful to conceal. “But you’ll die.”

Felix squeezed his father’s shoulders as the soldiers pulled him to his feet. “Everyone dies.”

Alistair ascended to the platform where his uncle was meant to rule Redcliffe from, quietly coming to stand beside the Blight-stricken mage. “Everyone dies,” Alistair repeated, “But you don’t have to, just yet. If I may make a proposal, I believe I can offer you, at the very least, a brief reprieve from what ails you.”

That Tevinter stoicism was back on Felix’s face as he turned to study the king’s face. “Why would you do that?” He didn’t ask what the reprieve was. Perhaps he already knew. There was only one way to survive Blight sickness.

Alistair clasped his hands behind his back, looking out over the throne room. “The sins of the father do not need to be carried by the son. Though, we often try to shoulder them anyway,” he spoke almost to himself. Then, louder, “Consider it a show of gratitude. Who knows how things might have turned out if you hadn’t gone against the Magister’s plans and aided the Inquisition? I’m not saying it is an ideal solution. The life of a Gray Warden isn’t easy. It can’t be anything like what you’re used to. But, dead is dead.”

“I would prefer to spend my remaining time trying to help my country,” Felix said slowly, “The way I understand it, Gray Wardens are not meant to meddle in affairs of politics.”

Alistair chuckled. “There are always exceptions, as my wife would be only too happy to tell you. Particularly when there is no Blight to focus on. You need not answer right now, but you should think on it. The offer stands as long as time is on our side.” He laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and went to stand beside Ariel just as Grand Enchanter Fiona approached, the epitome of meekness. Ariel was a coiled spring, he could feel it. He couldn’t blame her, after what they had seen.

“Grand Enchanter,” he said, “I like to think I’m a fair man. In fact, I’m told that, at times, I’m a bit too generous. In this case, I’m afraid I find that statement all too true. Imagine my surprise to find that you had given Redcliffe over to a deranged Magister from Tevinter… especially since I’m fairly sure that Redcliffe belongs to Arl Teagan.” 

“Your majesty, we never intended –“

“I know what you intended. I wanted to help your people. But you’ve made it impossible.” He hated this part of being monarch; the part where he had to put his foot down and be ruthless, even when he knew that there were innocents that he would be evicting. He shot a quick glance at Ariel. She didn’t look back, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod. They had discussed this, while preparing to storm the Venatori infested castle just hours ago… or was it a year from now? He decided not to think about it, lest he give himself more of a headache. “You and your people are no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

“But… we have hundreds who need protection!” The Grand Enchanter cried, her cat-like eyes pained. Even so, it was a relief to see her once again without red lyrium sprouting from her body. “Where will we go?”

There. It was a moment so right, it might have been scripted. “I should point out that the Inquisition did come here specifically for mages to aid in closing the Breech.”

Fiona had the gall to look discerning. For all that she had made some horrendous decisions, the woman had a backbone. “And what are the terms of this arrangement?”

“Hopefully better than Alexius gave you,” Dorian chimed in. "The Inquisition is better, yes?"

At Alistair’s side, Ariel muttered under her breath, “Any terms even unto death would be better than what Alexius gave you.”

“It seems we have little choice but to accept whatever offer you make,” Fiona was backed into a corner and she knew it. “If you come with us, it will be as our allies,” Ariel said. Alistair had schooled her on her phrasing. It was the first time in his life that he had ever tutored anyone on politics and alliances. “But understand what that means, and do not mistake me. This is a contract. By accepting, you agree to help us, not only to close the Breech, but to see the deposition of those who caused it. If you do not live up to these terms, if you abandon or double cross us, you will make us enemies and we will treat you with no less hostility than any Venatori agent we face. At the fulfillment of this contract, however, your people will be free to go or enlist, as they choose, and none will lift a finger to shackle or restrain them.”

“A generous offer,” said Fiona, “But will the rest of the Inquisition support it?”

“The Breech threatens all of Thedas. We cannot afford to be divided now. We can’t fight it without you. Any chance of success, requires your full support. The Inquisition’s leaders will understand that.”

Leliana would, Alistair knew. He had trouble believing that the Commander would take the news lightly, however. He could remember, too clearly, the ragged, frenzied Templar who had implored him and his companions to kill every mage left in the Circle Tower. Of course, the man he had later met in Kirkwall had been very different from that frightened youth. Perhaps… he looked at Ariel and discarded his doubts. He knew what that look meant. She had dug her heels in and would not be dissuaded no matter the protests. 

He wondered if he realized just what role she was stepping in to. He doubted it. Nobody realized that they had become a leader until they found themselves addressing their new court at the Landsmeet. Well… not in this case, but still. 

“I suggest you take that offer, if I were you,” Alistair advised. “One way or another, you are leaving my kingdom.”

“You realize that Haven is part of Ferelden,” Ariel said as they watched Fiona trudge out the door to go and inform her people of the new development. 

“Hush,” he said, smirking, “It sounded better than ‘you are moving to a very far Eastern town on the edge of my kingdom.’ Besides, Haven isn’t on any of my maps.”

“My Lady, are you sure that-“ Leliana was approaching. Before she could finish, however, Ariel had turned and flung her arms around the bard with a squeal. 

“Oh! There you are! You beautiful, beautiful, frightening, wonderful woman!” 

It took a moment for Leliana to untangle herself, and even then she looked a little ruffled by what had happened. She turned to the king, next, her gaze questioning, “Alistair, what-“ once again, she was cut off as Alistair flung his arms around her, much as the elf had, and spun her in a jubilant circle. “There you are! You beautiful songbird, you!” He all but echoed his friend. 

When he put Leliana down, her hood was awry, and her hair was askew. She eyed them both, for a moment, and then spoke carefully. “I think we all need to have a talk.”

“We do,” Ariel nodded, “And we are going to tell you a story so strange that even Varric wouldn’t be able to dream it up!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach is sealed and Haven celebrates a hard-earned victory. But the night isn't to be all celebration. A far more sinister evil is about to descend on the Inquisition.

“You believe in her.”

Cullen’s shoulders tensed slightly. For the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, it might as well have been the same as nearly jumping out of his skin. He glanced over at the woman who had appeared from nowhere to stand at his side. For once, Leliana had her hood pushed back, her bright, tawny head of chin-length hair catching the light of the many campfires which dotted the village. “I’m sorry?” 

“I said, you believe what she said in her report.” Was that the ghost of a smirk dancing across her face? He was almost certain that she had said something different initially. 

His gaze drifted back to the small figure who stood at the crest of the hill where the Chantry was built. She was looking out over the village, her expression pensive. “I do.” He confirmed. Ariel had come back from Redcliffe castle different. The change in attire on the three who claimed to have been transported into the future could have been reasoned away easily enough. The change in her, though… His jaw tightened a little. “And so do you.” It was not a question. He knew Leliana believed Ariel. She had this way of trying to play with everyone even in regular conversations. 

“Of course I do. I was there. I saw her vanish with the others. I saw her reappear seconds later. She was not the same person.” Of course Leliana had noticed it as well. The woman would notice the beat of a bird’s wing in a windstorm. She was watching the Herald now; must see every fatigued detail. What did she see that he did not? “It must have been terrible, for her. But she cannot keep going at this momentum.”

No, she couldn’t. It had been two weeks since the events at Redcliffe Castle and she hadn’t slowed down since. Were it training, tutoring, or field work, she never stopped. Everything was a matter of top priority; everything, it seemed, except for sleep and food. Neither of those things seemed to have made the list, though everything else, from hunting down every apostate cache hidden in the Hinterlands, to lighting burial mounds in the Exalted plains, seemed to have.

Cullen’s jaw tightened and he gave a sound of agreement to Leliana’s evaluation that was very near to a growl. The Herald’s efforts and newly forged dedication was commendable, but he didn’t know how long he could allow it to continue. Could nobody else see it but himself and the Spymaster? Was every single person she met in her travels unable to hear the soft lilt of fatigue in her voice? And even Vivienne’s mastery of creams and powders couldn’t manage to cover up the half-moon circles that darkened the skin beneath those Fade green eyes. 

“You should talk to her,” Leliana said after a moment of pause. Cullen didn’t realize, until she spoke, that he had returned his gaze to where Ariel was now speaking with Cassandra. 

“What?!” it sounded more like a yelp than could ever be considered decent for a man of his age and rank. “Why would you even… what makes you think I would be able to –“

“There is nothing we can say that will hold when she is out in the field. But, when she is here at Haven, you spend more time with her, than anyone else,” Leliana said reasonably. He opened his mouth to protest, but she went on in such a smooth, patient tone that the words died on his tongue. “Yes, we each spend time with her. We council her in our respective fields. But she trains with you every morning, and then spends a good deal of time in your tent throughout the day.”

Cullen’s ears burned. It wasn’t _that_ much time, was it? It certainly didn’t feel like it to him. There were huge portions of each day that she was in Haven that she didn’t spend with him, when her absence was acutely apparent to him. “I have been mentoring her in military tactics and strategy, at her request.” It sounded awfully defensive. If he was lucky, Leliana wouldn’t…

She noticed. The glitter in her beautiful blue eyes said so. At the very least, she didn’t press that particular matter. “She trusts you. She trusts your judgment. Haven’t you noticed that if it comes down to a decision between my suggestions or Josephine’s, she almost always uses you as the coin toss to decide one way or the other.” He hadn’t noticed, but now that she mentioned it…

“She trusts either of you, as well. And any number of her inner circle,” a term that they had taken to using for those lucky companions that Ariel had managed to pick up on her travels, who never quite made it to the standard ranks but were almost always clustering around her, always the first ones she selected to go with her. 

Leliana tucked her hands behind her back and proceeded to explain, as if she were speaking to a child. “It isn’t the same. Each of those in her inner circle follows her lead. They make suggestions and she does listen to them, but they still defer to her. Not to mention, she doesn’t spend as much time in their company, as she does in ours when she is here at Haven, when she _should_ be eating second portions and sleeping an extra hour when she can. Josephine is too used to dancing around matters to be able to bring it up frankly. And I…” a slight pause, and then her voice seemed as though something had weighted it down. “Neither of us can ever forget that I was with the Hero of Ferelden during the Fifth Blight.” 

“What does that have to do with..” Cullen cut himself off as the answer came to him. The betrayal of Logain MacTir, the invasion of the Darkspawn, all coincided with that underhanded, backstreet deal that had been made with Tevinter, that had seen Ariel shackled and kissing the Imperium’s boots for nearly a decade. “She can’t possibly blame you for that.”

“She doesn’t. Not consciously. Just as I don’t blame myself. But neither of us can help but remember that had things been different, had we gone to Denerim just a little bit sooner, everything might have changed. That knowledge will create a barrier between us that will last until one of us decides to breach it. That leaves you, Commander, at the top of the list of people she trusts, whose opinions she values, who just might be able to talk her into an extra bowl of stew and coax her into her covers early tonight.” 

The image of tucking Ariel into her bed made his ears burn all the hotter. He pushed it out of his mind immediately. Besides, he couldn’t imagine that anybody would be resting tonight. Spirits were too high for sleep, for most, and for any others, the noise of the celebrations wasn’t likely to allow them any peace. Uncomfortably, he scrubbed the back of his neck. He felt like he’d been doing that a lot, since he joined the Inquisition. There was going to be a raw patch there, if he wasn’t careful. 

How to bring up this subject? He was a protector of the people, but nurturing was another matter completely. He’d always kept a safe distance from his charges, both physically and emotionally. He guarded against abominations, not self-deprivation. If it were one of the troops, it was as simple as giving a harsh order and making it clear that any man or woman who disobeyed it would be digging latrines, since they wouldn’t be more than a liability in the field. But, he couldn’t very well suggest that the Herald of Andraste join the men in digging latrines, could he? The very thought made him snort in derision. 

A shout from the front gates saved him from having to try and wrap his head around something as absurd as asking a grown woman to eat and sleep, as if she were a child who neglected such things in favor of frivolity. He excused himself, perhaps a bit too quickly, and hurried to meet with the guard who was panting and speaking so quickly that the words were nearly another language. When they did manage to slow him down, the news he brought was enough to make Cullen’s blood turn to ice in his veins. 

“Get anyone who can’t handle a weapon into the Chantry, now! I want everyone else armed and armored as of five minutes ago. Move!” Soldiers swarmed at the sound of Cullen’s voice. Tankards were tossed aside without a second thought, but the men couldn’t discard what was already in their bellies. He could only hope that they hadn’t been too liberal in their libations, that they’d had the good sense to drink only enough to blunt the sharp edge of stress without dulling their senses as well. 

He turned just in time to see Cassandra and Ariel hurrying toward him. Even in the panic, people scattered to get out of the Herald’s way. Or, perhaps, they just wanted to make sure she had a clear path to save them. 

“One watchguard reporting,” Cullen said when Cassandra asked, “It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain.”

Josephine appeared at his elbow. “Under what banner?”

He looked up toward the mountain. “None.” 

Amidst startled gasps, Ariel was focused intently on the gate where, a moment later, a thunderous pounding indicated someone on the other side. The voice was at odds with the strength of that force. “I can’t come in unless you open!” 

Ariel was already in motion. Had circumstances been less dire, Cullen would have spared a moment to be proud at the ease with which she ducked around Cassandra’s hands reaching out to stop her. Already, she was pushing the gate open, staring up at a mountainous man, as tall as Cullen, almost as tall as the Iron Bull, in fact, and half again as broad. Cullen was already drawing his weapon when the towering edifice of man crumbled to reveal a lanky, bedraggled youth wearing the widest, most ridiculous hat that Cullen had ever seen, even including the picnic bonnet that Mia had adored when she was eleven. 

“I’m Cole,” said the same voice that had beckoned them to let him in a moment before. “I came to warn you, to help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know… the Templars come to kill you.”

“Templars?” Cullen barked incredulously, temper bubbling in his chest, “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking Blindly?”

“The red Templars went to the Elder One. You know him? He knows you. You took his mages… there,” taking a step back, the boy pointed toward one of the peaks overlooking Haven. Cullen lifted a hand to block the harsh wind, squinting in that direction. 

His heart sank. “I know that man…” Oh, yes, he knew him. “But this Elder One…” Was a nightmarish, disfigured creature who might once have been human. 

The boy’s voice dropped as he looked at Ariel from the shadows cast over his face by his hat. “He’s very angry that you took his mages.”

Her eyes were wide but determined. “Cullen, give me a plan. Anything!”

“Haven is no fortress,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder, taking stock of the men who had gathered. “If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle,” he turned to Ariel. He wanted, more than anything, to ask her to return to the Chantry. But the people needed to see their Herald rising against their enemy, needed to see her fighting. “Get out there and hit that force. Give it everything you can.” She nodded, just once, flipping her staff into her hands. Cullen turned back toward Haven. His sword rang as he drew it, and his voice rose to a bellow. “Mages, you! You have sanction to engage them. That is Samson, he will not make it easy. Inquisition! With the Herald!” He thrust his sword arm into the air and a battle cry rose to echo his own from every person gathered there, “For your lives, for all of us!”

\-----------------------------------

With a roar, Cullen plunged his sword into one of the crazed Templars. Fury drove the blade to the hilt though the man, frenzied on red lyrium, seemed slow to be convinced that he was finished. He flailed about, wildly but weakly. Cullen drove his boot against the creature’s shoulder, roughly kicking it off the length of steel and leaving it to its death throes as he turned, scanning for another target. How many had he killed? He didn’t know. The familiar ache in his shoulder said that it had to have been dozens. Still, they came, in wave after wave, relentless. How long had they been fighting? It had only been dusk when the army had first been spotted. Now, it was well into the night. 

“They’re all rabid,” Rylen panted at Cullen’s back, facing the opposite direction lest any more foes arise from there. “I’ve never seen men fight with such madness.”

_I have,_ Cullen thought, suppressing a shudder. It was Meredith all over again, only by the hundreds. His second was right, they fought with the kind of frenzied battle fury that he had only ever seen in berserkers or beasts with the water-sickness. One never knew how difficult a fight could be, until one faced off against an opponent who didn’t care whether or not they lived to be victorious. Wounds that would drop a normal man only seemed to heighten the frenzy. 

One of the trebuchets, the one that had hesitated, launched suddenly. Cullen watched the massive rock arcing into the sky and swore. He was going to welt someone up one side and down the other for having too much ale before operating the war machine. Its projectile was completely and utterly…. On beautiful target, he realized with a bark of disbelieving laughter, as it made contact with the mountain. Memories of his wild dash with Ariel, the blizzard raging at their heels, of their narrow escape and near death flashed through his mind as he watched the white wave build, heard the mountain groan under the force of it, and watched hundreds of those enemies be buried beneath it. 

Oh, someone was brilliant, indeed. They were in for a quick promotion. 

Just like that, the Inquisition gained the upper hand in a battle that had almost seemed hopeless. Shouts of victory rose up from every pocket of resistance they had held… and then choked off with frightened cries as a colossal winged shape swooped down over them, destroying one trebuchet in a rain of fire. 

“Andraste preserve us,” Rylen breathed, his voice nearly lost in the commotion. 

“Sound the retreat,” Cullen said, not able to tear his eyes away from the beast that claimed the sky. When he realized that his second hadn’t moved any more than he had, he snapped into action, shoving the other man mercilessly. “Now! Fall back! Everyone fall back!” There was nothing left on this battlefield for the Inquisition save death. 

Following his own advice, Cullen turned to run for the gates, pausing only long enough to heft a wounded soldier onto his back, half-dragging him along until he could push him into the arms of one of the mages with orders to get him safely indoors. “Come on! Come on, move it!” He shouted, eyes roving over the carnage, seeking, hunting… and then, the tiny figure he sought crested the hill, streaking toward him as fast as her legs could carry her, companions all battle-tarnished, but seemingly unharmed, moving around her. 

The dragon roared, a deafening sound that shook the ground. Cullen and the Iron Bull wrestled the gate – damaged, nearly off its hinges – closed, for whatever protection it might offer them against a beast who could simply fly over their defenses and land with devastating force at their heart. He turned, taking in what was left of the Inquisition. Only a few lives had been lost. Even so, death stared back at him from every pair of eyes. Cullen lifted his chin and strode past them. “We need to get everyone back to the Chantry. It’s the only building that might hold against… that thing. At this point, just make them work for it.” 

\---------------------------------

“I don’t like him.” As simple as that. _I don’t like the Elder One._ As simply as if he had been saying he didn’t like cheese or spiders or rainy days. 

Cullen stared at the strange boy with his strange hat who had appeared so strangely in their time of need. Really, why was Cullen even surprised when strange things came out of his mouth? “You don’t like…” he began incredulously, then shook his head, turning his gaze back to the Herald. The look she gave him – trusting, no, begging him to give her a solution – was agony. “There are no tactics to make this survivable.” But, if they played this right, they might be able to take the Elder One and his fearsome pet, with them. Keeping his voice low, he explained his plan. “The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchet, cause one last slide.”

“But we’re overrun! To hit the enemy… we’d bury Haven,” the realization dawned on the Herald’s face even as she spoke. They would bury Haven. And everyone in it.

“We’re dying,” he said, as gently as he could, “But we can decide how. Many don’t get that choice.”

Those bright green eyes closed tightly, but she took a deep, shuddering breath, and looked up at him again, nodding. “I thought I would die in Tevinter, forgotten and in chains. This is… a death I can be proud of… it is more than I could have asked for.” 

The last thing he expected was for the boy to speak up, for Chancellor Roderick to have something to say that was beneficial to the cause. Hope dawned on Ariel’s face, and then fell when they realized the grim truth. The Inquisition might survive, if they moved quickly, but only if she stayed behind. This Elder One wanted her, only her. If she went with them, he would follow on their heels and destroy everything and everyone in his path. Even knowing that, it took more self-control than Cullen thought himself capable of, to keep from protesting. She was decided. Maker, she was a wondrous creation. It seemed a cruel twist, that she should perish here.

“Perhaps you will surprise it; find a way,” he ventured. If anyone in the whole of Thedas could, it would be Ariel.

She gave him a wobbly smile.“Perhaps I will. Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Tell Leliana, she isn’t the only one who likes a bargain.”

He didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t have to. Cullen nodded.. His knuckles had to be white within his gloves, from gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly. If he let go, released even an inch, he feared his control would unravel, that he would grab her and not let go. Where the urge arose from, he couldn’t say, only that it had been building since that first moment that he had seen her, tiny and pale, teeth bared as she faced the rift, forced it closed with her strange, wondrous mark. A gift from the Maker’s Bride, herself, when they thought they had been abandoned.

Leliana was right, he realized with wonder. He did believe.

That didn’t make it any easier to walk away. But Cullen gritted his teeth and did his duty, as he had always done. “Keep his attention until we are above the tree line.”

“How will I know?” Her voice sounded as though it was coming from far away. 

“You’ll know. We will send you a signal.” She nodded, turning away. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed her arm, his voice urgent. “Ariel, if we are to have a chance, if _you_ are to have a chance… Let that thing hear you.”

For a lingering moment, those green eyes looked up into his. He could feel her breath against his lips, his chin; hadn’t realized he had pulled her that close. Cullen didn’t much care for the indecent proximity when she bared her teeth slowly. He carried her fierce grin with him as he followed the Inquisition away from the crypt that Haven was to become. 

\----------------------------

Ariel woke with a start, bolting to a seated position, hands raised. Lightning wove through the fingertips of one hand, fire danced in the palm of the other. She bared her teeth at the darkness around her, but there was no sound save that of her own ragged, half-snarling breaths. There was no sign of the Elder One - _Corypheus_ \- or his dragon. 

No, she remembered, clenching her hands into fists to dispel the magic that was crackling over her skin. There wouldn’t be any sign of either of them. They had taken to the sky to escape the snow slide. Bloody convenient way to go about it, really. Next time she faced him, she would have to take that into account, find a way to clip the beast’s wings, as it were. 

Suddenly, she was laughing so hard that her own voice surrounded her, causing an obnoxious band of tiny Qunari drummers to hammer against the inside of her skull. When had they moved in? When she finally managed to gain control over herself, there were tears streaming down her cheeks. 

Here she was, having only narrowly escaped with her life intact, and she was already making plans – or, rather, making plans to make plans - for her next battle against the terrifying… thing who called himself a god, who had tossed her about like a child’s ragdoll. The mountain falling on their heads hadn’t caused as much as a ripple in his composure. There were more concerns than just besting the dragon.

The most present issue was finding a way out of this cavern. Corypheus and his fire-breathing pet wouldn’t be any concern to her, at all, if she died down here. So, the first matter was to find a way forward, locate the Inquisition. That was a sobering thought. She couldn’t know what direction they had gone in after taking the Pilgrim’s Path, or how far they had made it before they’d had to camp. 

_Just find a way out first._ if she started thinking too far ahead, suddenly the next few hours seemed a daunting task with little chance of success. This was not a situation that she could turn over the way she might a match of chess – something Dorian had started teaching her to play, recently – but one that she could only address a step at a time. 

Those steps led her down a narrow corridor, which twisted and eventually opened out into a wide, circular cavern. Vaguely, she wondered what these tunnels had once been used for, what their purpose had been. Perhaps Solas would know, if she asked him. And ask she would, as soon as she found them. She would not allow herself to think of any alternative outcome to this situation. 

Suddenly, her vision was flooded with green. Four wisps materialized out of nowhere, their featureless faces turned in her direction. After the monstrosities that had assaulted Haven, Ariel had no fear left over to spare for these weak translucent demons. Instinctively, she raised her arm, pulling on the magic that she could now feel billowing and brewing inside her at all times. Something hot and powerful raced down her arm. The Anchor sprang to life with a static crack, and then a pulsing ball of undulating green energy was pulsating overhead. The wisps vanished, though their ghostly gestures seemed to be frantic as they tried to escape. 

Ariel stared down at her hand, which was still glowing, ready to spring to life again if she let it. _Well, that’s new._ Not that she was complaining, of course. It was a damn useful trick. She could think of a few enemies, off the top of her head, that had been able to trample her into the ground a bit too easily. Maybe this new ability was just the thing to turn the tables. 

Finding a way out of the tunnels was the only thing she let herself think about, until she stumbled out into the open and was blasted by a wall of blistering cold that immediately stole her breath, not that it had been warm in the caves, of course, but at least it had been still and contained. Now the wind whipped around her, seeking to slip into her clothes and touch her skin; and doing so with far more success than the boys in the alienage had ever had at that. 

Now, her singular concern had to be finding her people. A shape caught her eye in the near distance, a faint silhouette. She trudged in that direction, and couldn’t quite bite back a joyous sob at what she found. A single campfire would do little good for a group the size of the Inquisition, and she couldn’t imagine that they would have stopped so near to Haven. So, the ring of stones and the burnt kindling piled within could only mean one thing. 

After studying the lay of the wood for a moment longer, she looked up. An endless expanse of white stretched before her and there, vaguely in the distance, she thought she saw another faint shape. With renewed hope, Ariel pulled her coat tighter about her shoulders, gripped her staff, and moved forward. 

\-------------------------------

Cullen froze, every muscle poised and ready. He squinted into the flurry, holding his breath. He was afraid to hope and yet he couldn’t stop himself. Too many times, already, he had thought he had seen her, only to have his hope shattered when he realized that what he had seen was a trick of the snow, the deceptive flicker of a shadow or swaying of a tree. He glared at the illusion now, waiting for it to disintegrate into some mundane natural phenomenon. Instead it moved forward, slowly; became more solid, more distinct from the snow

“There!” He shouted, “It’s her!” At the sound of his voice, the small figure crumbled. He was already plunging toward her, kicking up snow as he ran. She was shaking like a sapling caught in a storm. Her cheeks were blistered from the cold and her lips were purple. Frost had gathered in crystalline sheets on her lashes and in her hair. She looked half-dead. She was the most beautiful thing Cullen thought he had ever seen. He tore his coat from his shoulders and bundled her in it, plucking her from the snow and cradling her against his chest. 

“C-Cullen… Cullen,” she whispered, her voice a painful croak. He ignored the freezing sensation against his neck where she buried her face. “I knew I’d find you.. I knew it.”

She might be chilled to ice right down to her bones, but her words had something of a polar effect on him. Suddenly, he felt warm all the way through, even without his heavy coat. “It’s alright. You’re alright. You’re safe now,” he rumbled, “I’ve got you.” He clung to his own words, the relief so strong that he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or drop to his knees and thank the Maker or his Lady for Their mercy. Perhaps, later, when nobody was watching, he would do both. For now, he had a single concern and it was wrapped up against his chest.

A murmur rose as Cullen swept into the camp. Then a cry went up from somewhere. “It’s her! It’s the Herald!”

“The Herald of Andraste, she’s alive!”

“Blessed be the Maker’s Bride, She has sent Her scion back to us!”

“Praise be to you, Herald!”

People gathered to mark the Commander’s passage with his precious bundle. A few hands reached out to touch her. More than one knelt, lifting pieces of dried bread or bowls of watery stew, the rations for this evening, to her… as if she had the energy to accept any of it. He was relieved when Cassandra, Iron Bull, and Blackwall took up a guard formation around him to keep people at bay. He had eyes only for Ariel, drank in each rise of her chest, each weak gust of icy breath against his neck, the flutter of her frosty lashes; all signs that she was still with him. 

There, in the heart of camp, was a large tent that they were using as an infirmary for the injured. Next to it, was a smaller, but more private shelter that was being used for examinations. Cullen ducked into that one and gently deposited his cargo on the cot that was set up there. Without thinking, he reached out to brush some of the snow out of her dark, tangled curls. The appeared and pushed him away, immediately unwrapping the Herald from his heavy fur-lined coat, pushing it back into his arms and making shooing motions in his direction, even as she called for more wood, to build the fire higher, saying something about sweating the chill out of Ariel. He hovered there, hesitant to leave her, when every breath she took seemed more precious than the air in his own lungs. But, when the healer began to unfasten and unbuckle the light armor that she was wearing, Cullen tactfully fled. 

Hours and even days later, the soldiers of the Inquisition - a worse cluster of gossips than any woman’s knitting circle - would whisper gleefully behind their hands about the way their Commander lifted his coat and buried his face in its folds. The expression on his face was pure reverence. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition spends a cold night in the Wilderness after the destruction of Haven. Spirits are low, but hope isn't lost.

A lynx paced slowly over the snowy tundra, the silent ghost of the Frostback Mountains. Her pace was measured, patient, unhurried as she stalked, leaving no evidence of her passage save the print of her paws, wider than her lowland kin so as to prevent her from sinking into the snow. As she crested a mound of fresh white powder, she paused, sniffing curiously. There was a scent there, faint, but unusual enough to catch her interest; blood, smoke, ash… the only evidence of the battlefield that was buried beneath it, the crypt that Haven had become overnight. The mountain had a way of erasing the past and the lynx had more important things on her mind; like the two young ones waiting for her return. She was on the path of an elderly bronco, hopefully it would have enough meat on its bones to satisfy her hungry young. It was time they were weaned, they now needed more than she could provide in milk to sustain them.

Miles away, an elk went suddenly rigid, its great antlered head lifting, ears pricked forward. The mountains were typically a serene, quiet atmosphere, so long as one kept their distance from the small human settlements. A forest of conifers didn’t offer much in the way of sustenance, and so it wasn’t abundant in fauna. Only a few beasts could survive this harshly beautiful environment and they did so unobtrusively. So, the sound of raised voices punctuating the otherwise still atmosphere was enough to startle the massive antlered creature. Strange things had been occurring in its home lately, frightening, deadly things that had begun when the strange green light conquered the sky. The hart’s ears flickered curiously and he paced a few steps closer.

Deep in the heart of camp, a grown adult man, a seasoned warrior who had faced apostates, abominations, blood mages, and all manner of horrifying creatures, was resisting the temptation to pull his hair out in fistfulls. These _women_ were going to be the end of him. There was only so much that they could ask of their troops. When Cullen had agreed to take charge of the Inquisition’s forces, it had been under the impression that they were working to end a terrible war, a war that threatened to tear apart all of Thedas… frightening and ominous, but still a mortal matter. The tear in the sky, the appearance of this… Corypheus and his archdemon… it went beyond mages and Templars, beyond humans, elves, or dwarves. For his part, he didn’t care what they were facing. He had pledged himself whole and wholly to this cause. But that didn’t give him the right to demand that everyone else lay down their own lives for it. Duty could be tyrannical, but he was not going to be its whip. 

Cassandra didn’t see it that way. It was beyond her to imagine that anyone could ever dream of retreating. Of course, she hated her family. There was nothing in her that pined for home. She lived for her work, was married to it. For her, there was nothing else as important. 

With enormous effort, Cullen tried to make his voice sound patient. He wasn’t entirely successful. Calm never sounded quite the same when spoken through bared teeth. The women were all glowering at him. He glowered back, opened his mouth to retort. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the small figure reclining next to Mother Giselle lift up a little, watching them. 

He lowered his voice, stepping into the circle they formed to ensure that each woman heard him. “I am behind this cause, whatever we decide. But until we are all agreed on a single course of action, I am _not_ going to order our forces to offer themselves up to this monster on a silver platter in order to prove their faith.” He was _not_ Meredith. Fanatic belief was what had caused… all of this. There had to be a line somewhere. 

Cullen stalked away from them, drinking in the cold night air. He needed to clear his head. His temples were throbbing, his body ached everywhere, and he was sweating in spite of the cold. The vicious force that was withdrawal could not have picked a more inconvenient time to twist the knife. He would have liked some space to himself, but Ariel’s presence kept him tethered to the center of the camp. It was a foolish notion, anything that came for her here would have to get through the rest of the Inquisition. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to let her out of his sight just yet. 

She was standing now. He could swear he could feel her gaze passing over him. For a moment, everything was quiet. They all retreated to their corners, and let the simmer in the air, caused by too many hot heads gathered in one place, cool a little. 

“Shadows fall and hope has fled. Steel your heart, the dawn will come…” Cullen glanced up as Mother Giselle’s voice wove into the air. All around the camp, heads lifted, hands stilled in their tasks. A hush fell over the Inquisition, no one made a sound, save that one voice. “The night is long and the path is dark. Look to the sky for one day soon, the dawn will come.” 

Leliana’s voice rose to join the Chantry Mother’s, a sweet, lilting soprano. It stirred something through the rest of the camp. More voices rang out to join the first. The people gathered, as if drawn by string, emerging from tents and gathering around the Herald. Cullen heard his own brassy baritone lift before he even made the conscious decision to join. It was as if the song itself had reached into him. For just a moment, Cullen lost sight of her tiny frame. Then there was a ripple of motion from where she stood. Men knelt, heads bowed. Her green eyes moved slowly over the crowd, and came to rest on his from over the tops of the heads of those gathered. Deliberately, he pressed a fist over his chest, and bowed his head. 

Whatever magic the hymn carried, it was like a cleansing breeze. It swept through the camp, soothing frayed nerves and instilling comfort, hope. They had lost the battle, but not the war. Buildings had been destroyed, but the Inquisition was constructed of something stronger than wood and stone. The people seemed to remember that now, and they emerged from their disheartened gloom the way spring grass grew out of winter’s final sludge. 

Solas approached and drew Ariel away. Cullen couldn’t help but wonder what he had to say that he was so keen to keep private. He was trying not to let his distrust of mages cloud his judgment, though he couldn’t always help himself. But, something about Solas made his hackles raise. 

It didn’t help that Ariel was visibly shaken when she returned. Her fellow elven apostate touched her shoulder and Cullen couldn’t quite figure out was in the glance they shared, but Ariel nodded and turned to search the crowd. He eyes found Cullen and then she was moving toward him briskly. He stepped forward to meet her, his long stride closing the distance in half the time it would have taken her. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

She grimaced, “Would you think less of me, if I said I was terrified?”

Cullen smiled. “There is very little that could make me think less of you,” he admitted. She could have asked him to put on a dress and dance the Remigold and he probably still would have held her in the highest esteem. Of course, it was easy to think that when he knew the danger of Ariel asking him such a thing was slim to none. Public humiliation wasn't in her nature.

A smile bloomed on her face, the first he had seen since he had plucked her from the snow. “Thank you, Cullen. For everything,” she said softly. Then she looked off toward where the others were gathered. “I need to speak with you. All of you. I… I think I might have an idea about where we should go.”

Their planning went on into the night. Cullen had wanted a consensus and he got it on one matter. If they could agree on nothing else; they could not remain here, waiting for Corypheus’ vultures to descend upon them, or for the mountain to claim half their numbers. At this point, they were as threatened by the possibility of starvation or exposure as they were by another attack from that army. If this place that Solas had mentioned took them somewhere with walls and a roof, a place they could dig in and fortify, then it was several times better than their current location. 

In the morning, they would have a small service. Cullen already had some of his people building pyres for those whose lives had been lost. The mountain pass where they were camped would have to serve as a burial site, as passage over the mountain would be hazardous enough without, literally, carting their dead weight with them. Then, they would break camp and head northward, covering as much ground as they could manage. Every moment of daylight not spent in motion was one wasted. 

Finally, Ariel excused herself and went to slump down next to one of the fires, where Sera, Dorian, and Varric were lounging. Sera, however, had succumbed to whatever was in the bottle around which she was coiled and was snoring softly. Ariel had heard that the elf had taken the events at Haven hard. She was happy to let the glowing heat chase some of the chill out of her bones; she was beginning to think that chill might have moved in permanently. She was even happier to accept the half-full flask that Varric pulled from his belt and handed to her. It was a strong spirit that slid in a warm stream down her throat to pool in her belly. The second sip seemed to seep into her limbs, leaving her feeling heavy and languid. It was only as her eyelids began to droop that she noticed Varric and Dorian exchanging conspiratorial glances. 

Ariel stood up, with every intention of giving them the sharp side of her tongue. Her body wasn’t cooperating though. Dorian rose with her, and easily pushed aside the weak punch she aimed at him; both of him. “You are both sons of whores,” she managed to get out around a huge yawn that shook her entire frame. 

Varric propped his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers, and gazed over their tips at her. “Tsk, tsk, Firefly, is that any way to talk about our mother?” What was he talking about? It took a moment for Ariel to dig the memory of calling him an over-protective sibling out of the thick fog that was rolling through her mind, effectively smothering any intelligent thought process. 

“Imma tell Cullen,” she said, again through another yawn. Her body tried to slump to the ground and she barely realized it when Dorian tucked one of her arms around his shoulders and curled his hand about her waist to help guide her to her tent. “M'a tell him you drugged me.” Cullen would have their hides for sure. He could add Varric's chest hair to that mane of fur that collared his huge coat. Ariel giggled drunkenly at the thought.

“My sweet, presumptuous prophet,” Dorian chuckled warmly. To say that he was ‘guiding’ her toward her tent was a generous statement. Only the tips of her toes brushed over the snow as he supported her. “Just who exactly do you think asked us to do this?”

\----------------------

“You did _what?_ ” Cullen was so startled that he dropped his armload of lumber, mostly used for tent poles, right on top his foot. He’d thought his toes were numb, but they weren’t numb enough. It still hurt enough to make him wince. Kicking the pile away, he turned to stare incredulously at the dwarf, who canted there against one of the carts that they were loading, thumbs tucked into his belt, looking completely unconcerned with the Commander’s temper. “Varric that is not what I asked you to do.” Not even by half. 

Varric’s thick eyebrows twitched toward his hairline and he gave a snort. “Why Curly, it is _exactly_ what you asked me to do.”

“What I meant –“ Cullen began in exasperation. 

The dwarf cut him off calmly, “What you _said_ was ‘see that she gets some proper rest before we break camp in the morning.’ You didn’t specify the means by which I was to make that happen. By my reckoning, I did exactly as you asked.”

“You drugged the Herald of Andraste!” Surely that must be blasphemy. 

“I also drugged the Champion of Kirkwall, when he didn’t get enough sleep, and you never threw a fuss about that.”

Cullen bit back a groan, pressing a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t know about that.” Had he known, he likely wouldn’t have been in a position to say or do anything about the matter. His time in Kirkwall had been difficult, and confusing enough without trying to sort out whether Hawke was a friend to be looked after, or a foe to be battled against. “This is a different matter entirely.” Outside of being apostates, Ariel and Hawke were different species, in Cullen’s mind.

“For you, maybe,” Varric shrugged, “For me, not so much. It’s as simple as looking out for the best interests of a friend.” 

“And as simple as laying all the blame on those broad shoulders you like to flaunt about,” Dorian added cheerfully, appearing from out of nowhere next to Varric, a bowl of something hot and steaming in one hand, “So that her bad mood would be directed at you and not us, you understand. After all, Varric here is her brother and I my feelings are so very delicate.”

Cullen was still trying to sort through all of that when a sharp voice called out from behind him. Dwarves, he noted, could move surprisingly quickly when they were motivated enough. Just like that, Cullen found himself standing alone, the steaming bowl Dorian had been holding cradled in one hand and the lilting, jaunty tune the mage was whistling seeming to mock him as Dorian sauntered off. 

He supposed that he could have found a way to escape, if he’d really wanted to. There was still a lot of work to do before the sun crested the mountain peaks and set daytime upon them fully. Instead, he turned and waited for Ariel to weave her way to him. It took effort to bite back his smile. He couldn’t, in good conscience, condone the thought of drugging their Herald in order to ensure that she slept. But, there was a lightness in her step and a clarity in her beautiful green eyes that had been entirely absent the night before. She looked _better._ That eased some of his tension, even if her proximity had begun to cause a different kind of tension to grip him; a tension that was not entirely appropriate. 

Always a quick tactician, Cullen spoke before she could do much more than open her mouth. “My lady, may I offer you breakfast?” He proffered the bowl, which turned out to contain a thick slice of bread soaked in warm broth. He couldn’t imagine extravagant Dorian of House Parvus of Minrathous eating such mush if he could help it. That could only mean that the conniving bastards had planned this out to the last detail. _I'm going to skin that dwarf. Maker help me, I will have him for a coat._

Ariel eyed the bowl like it might grow fangs and bite her. “Did a certain dwarf happen to give you that bowl?”

“No, a certain Tevinter did.”

“Of course he did. And tell me, since you’re so chummy with said Tevinter and said dwarf, are there any additional… spices in there that I ought to be aware of?” Her voice was deceptively calm. It reminded him of the sort of quiet that would blanket Honnleath before it was hit by a storm so fierce that it tore the shingles from the roof… or the kind of heady calm that Hawke had exuded before going to face the Arishock. He pushed that last thought to the back of his mind but it didn’t stop the shiver that ran up his spine. 

“In spite of what you’ve heard, what Varric did to you was not on my order. But, the fault is still mine,” he grimaced as her expression turned quizzical. 

“It wasn’t your fault, but it was your fault….” She said slowly, crossing her arms. 

“Come with me, please. This is not a conversation that needs to be witnessed by every soldier within hearing range,” he said, motioning. She hesitated, glancing around them. Indeed, more than one pair of eyes was turned, not so very discreetly, in their direction. And had Scout Harding been standing next to that cart only a few feet away a moment ago? Ariel nodded and fell into step beside him. When they were a fair distance away from any over-curious ears, he turned back to face her. “I asked Varric to see that you got some proper sleep… but I failed to specify the means by which he ought to go about doing that.” 

And now the fury was back, breaking through her calm as she bared her teeth and growled. “You failed to specify… you pretentious, overbearing, self-righteous _Templar!_ How dare you?”

Cullen stiffened, his lip curling slightly as he growled in return. “I may not agree with the method of execution, but I stand by the result. You were dead on your feet. You _needed_ to sleep.”

“That isn’t any of your business! I am not one of your charges to be goaded into obeying at the point of your sword or the authority of your order! You had no right!”

“I’m sorry.” No, he wasn’t. Did she have any idea what she was saying? Not his business? As if the sun failing to rise in the morning would not be his business. “Did our concern get in the way of your martyrdom?” That sounded harsh to his ears, but the beast that had taken hold of his tongue was too furious to be bothered with blunting the sharp edge of his words. 

“My what? How dare-“

“No, how dare _you?_ You stayed behind. You could have…” Cullen shook his head sharply. He couldn’t finish that thought. "But Corypheous, the mountain… they failed to kill you, but just barely. Ariel, you were half dead when I pulled you out of the snow and you were up in hours, acting as if you had every intention of jumping back into the field!” Tossing the bowl that he still held aside, he grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. The dismantled camp stretched out before them, with hundreds of soldiers, refugees, pilgrims all bustling about to get them ready to move. 

Cullen spoke in her ear, soft but fierce, “Before the Conclave, we were a small force of hopeful idealists who didn’t see any better way to do our part to help end this war. Then that Blighted explosion nearly destroyed us. We were divided, scared, confused… and then there you were there, stepping out of the Fade with that mark yours, proving to that even the smallest among us could make a difference. Giving us hope in a hopeless situation. You are the key. To all of this.” A shiver coursed through her from her boots to the top of her head. Cullen’s own furious trembling stilled as he turned her back around to face him. His voice was softer now, but no less strong. “You ask what gives me the right to do what I did? You are my Herald. This Inquisition would not be what it is without you. It is my privilege to serve as your advisor and my duty to protect you whenever I’m able. Even from yourself. And if you ask Varric and Dorian, I am sure they will tell you something similar.”

Ariel stared at him in surprise, mouth hanging open. Her breath whispered across his lips, blowing away the remnants of his temper as he realized that they had been sharing air for almost the entire duration of his tirade. He’d been so intent on what he had to say, on making her _see_ that he hadn’t realized how close he was leaning to her. Cullen released her so quickly she might as well have been a red hot branding iron. Scrubbing furiously at the back of his neck, he cleared his throat and squinted out over the camp, searching for something to set his focus on. Anything would do, so long as it didn’t have anything to do with the graceful flutter of Ariel’s throat, or the smell of her skin, or that wicked lock of hair that kept falling into her eyes, making his fingers itch strangely. 

For a very long moment, neither of them spoke. There was no sound between them but the breeze and Cullen’s own heartbeat thudding in his ears. Finally, she cleared her throat as well. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shifting awkwardly. 

“Are you finished?” she asked. Her voice sounded small. 

He considered the question, then gave a nod. “I think so.”

“Good. You spilled my breakfast all over the ground and I’d like to get another bowl before we leave.”

Cullen barked a relieved laugh and turned to walk with her back into the midst of camp. And that, it seemed, was the end of that conversation. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ariel becomes the Inquisitor and finds that not all fights she night have to face will take place on the battlefield. Meanwhile, Cullen begins to deal with some unexpected new feelings for a certain little elf.

Ariel’s first thought, when she found herself staring down at the massive ceremonial blade that Leliana proffered to her, was of its weight, both literally and symbolically. Her second thought was that she hoped she didn’t drop it on her foot. It wouldn’t really make for a very heroic visage for the Inquisitor, only just ascended to her title, to be seen hopping about on that platform on one foot after having the other broken by the very symbol of her office.

Inquisitor Lavellan. That one was going to take some getting used to. In spite of everything that happened, she still saw it as happenstance, mere luck that put her at the center of the Inquisitions movements. She certainly wasn’t a leader; had never been. She was simply a key to be turned in a lock. A hammer to drive a nail home. She was a tool, not the one wielding it. 

Nobody had bothered to ask her opinion on the matter. In fact, they had plotted behind her back to spring it on her, in front of every agent they had, without so much as the whisper of a warning. To say that she was shocked would have been the mother of all understatements. An elf, an apostate, a slave… and they wanted to call her Inquisitor and give her command over all of them. It would have seemed like a fairytale, if she hadn’t been so scared that it nearly made her sick. 

She managed not to drop the huge weapon. Thankfully, whoever had forged it had done so purely for the ceremonial presence of it. It was light enough to lift without causing her to tip into the courtyard and the crowd gathered there to watch. Still, it was foreign in her hands, different in balance and shape than the staves she was used to, and she was certain that it must have looked awkward; nothing like the fluid way Cullen, or Cassandra, or Blackwall handled their blades, as though they were merely an extension of their arms. 

Thank the Maker that nobody got it into their heads to start singing again. Promotion or no, she thought if one voice had lifted in song, she would have thrown down that sword and gone to live in the Undercroft before anyone had a chance to blink. There would have been no evidence of her passing save a trail of dust left in her wake. As grandiose and even romantic as it might seem to find oneself the center of impromptu mass-musicality, at least hypothetically, the fact of the matter was that you suddenly felt more awkward than you ever had, concerned that your hair was a mess, or that it might seem disparaging to scratch the sudden itch in your elbow. No, she did not want to find herself in that situation again. Not ever. 

It took two days of long work before the masons declared it safe enough to enter the fortress without the danger of the roof falling down on top of them. After decades of damp and frost fall, the ancient wood of the grand hall had swollen to such an extent that it took three men – or, more accurately, two men and a Qunari – to shoulder it open. Flanked by the advisors, her advisors, Ariel moved into the heart of the great stone fortress. Decaying and damaged masonry had long since cast a carpet of debris and rubble over the floors. Old tapestries lined the walls, so faded that their origin could not be determined.

“So, this is where it begins,” Cullen breathed, his deep baritone echoing through the cavernous hall as he turned in a slow circle to take it all in. 

“It began in the courtyard. This is where we turn that promise into action,” Leliana stated, her blue gaze coming to rest on the dais at the far end of the hall. 

Ariel followed her gaze. It seemed to her that the size of the chamber grew all around them, leaving them standing in the middle of this huge undertaking, without a solid idea where to turn to next. At least there were no spiders, giant or otherwise. When it came to the places Solas liked to frequent, one could never be sure. An army of demons was one thing, but a swarm of giant spiders? Give her a big enough pair of boots and Ariel thought she could spend the rest of her days stomping every eight-legged, unholy fiend from here to Par Vollen.

The first thing on the agenda, Ariel supposed, was to decide what to do first. Cullen didn’t believe that they were facing a true invasion, but that didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be opportunists in the Imperium who saw the chance to bolster their own prestige and wealth by throwing their lot in with Corypheus. New kings, new gods, could often be counted on to dole out favors for those who had helped them ascend to their thrones. Ariel had no intention of giving him that chance. If he gained the Black City, if he claimed the throne he sought… Ariel shuddered. The memory was all too clear in her mind, of what the world would face if the Elder One succeeded. 

The dragon complicated things, as if they weren’t already complicated enough. Being sandwiched between Corypheus’ army and an legion of Darkspawn was just about the most inopportune place that Ariel could imagine. Josephine speculated that the dragon might _not_ be the sort who could control the innumerable masses that swarmed and spawned in the Deep Roads, but that was a very big if. 

“Send word to Alistair,” Ariel suggested. It felt strange to be the one putting ideas forward. She usually felt like the coin toss that decided between already proposed methods of action. “He’s a king now, but he was a Grey Warden first. And his wife is the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. If we are facing another Blight, won’t she be one of the first to know?” If they were lucky, maybe they could gain some insight as to where they ought to start digging in order to slay that beast at the head before it had a chance to slither fully out of the Deep Roads. 

In the meantime, there was the Empress to worry about. Orlesian politics made little sense to Ariel, but even in her ignorance, she could understand the sort of chaos that Orlais, indeed, every region of Southern Thedas might be thrown into, if the monarch of the empire to be slain at her own party. It was the sort of chaos that might give Corypheus every opportunity he needed. _Deadly peace talks, bah!_ Ariel thought disdainfully, shaking her head. It was almost funny. She’d have chuckled about it if the implications weren’t so grave. 

Finally, Leliana sighed. “I’d feel better if I knew more about what we were dealing with.”

“I know someone who can help with that,” a familiar voice drawled from the doorway. Ariel whipped around to see Varric strolling in their direction; not a single hair out of place gave away the fact that he must have been listening to their entire conversation. “Everyone acting all inspirational jogged my memory, so I sent a message to an old friend. He’s crossed paths with Corypheus before and may know more about what he’s up to. He can help.”

At her side, Leliana straightened; seemed to grow inches taller. A glance at the Spymaster showed that her beautiful face was completely void of any expression, slave a slight squint in her eyes. Next to her, Cullen’s head had tilted in the way it always did when he was suspicious of something. He was staring at Varric as if he might be able to drill a hole in the dwarf’s head in order to get at the information he was dancing around giving them. But neither of them said anything. 

“I’m always looking for new allies,” Ariel said slowly, carefully. She hadn’t really spoken much to Varric since the incident with the flask and her impromptu slumber that had followed. She still hadn’t quite forgiven him, even if she could see the sense in it. Or, rather, Cullen had made her see the sense in tending to her own needs when she could. She was little more than a liability with a very useful left hand, when she was too exhausted to see straight. Still, her feelings, or perhaps her pride, was a little bruised nonetheless. This, however, was an important matter and an opportunity that she couldn’t pass up, wounded pride or no. “Introduce me.”

Varric glanced over his shoulder just as Cassandra’s angry voice rose from outside. Ariel couldn’t make out just exactly what the Seeker was bellowing about, but it made the dwarf give a wince. “Parading around might cause a fuss…”

“Varric, has the Inquisition done anything, yet, that didn’t involve parading around and causing a fuss? In fact, I’m pretty sure leading fuss-causing parades are one of the responsibilities of my new office.”

“Just the same, it’s better if you meet privately. On the battlements.” He shook his head when Ariel opened her mouth to protest. “Trust me. It’s complicated.” 

“Isn’t it always?” she muttered as the dwarf excused himself. “Wait right there!” She turned back to her advisors as Varric paused. “Do you have any more need of me at the moment?”

Josephine looked down at the notes she had been scribbling. She felt it important to document every matter they discussed and what was said about it. She shook her head. “We stand ready to move forward on both of these issues.”

“On your order, Inquisitor,” Cullen agreed, his scar lifting a little in a half-grin when he addressed her by her new title. 

“I know one thing,” Leliana mused as the elf turned and hurried away, “If Varric has brought in who I think he has, Cassandra is going to kill him.”

Ariel turned over in her mind just what kind of friend Varric might have called on that would turn Cassandra homicidal. She supposed a few names could be on that list. Cassandra had something of a short fuse and little patience for fools or criminals. Ariel had a feeling that Varric knew plenty of both. Still, she was beginning to have an idea about who it might be that almost made her forget that she was still sore with the dwarf. There could be plenty of people that would incite the Seeker’s righteous temper, but given how Cullen had reacted, how he had been recruited and how Varric had been dragged from Kirkwall… A small tremor of excitement thrilled through her.

“Are we speaking again?” Varric asked nonchalantly as Ariel fell into step beside him. Together, they began their descent down the stone steps that led into the courtyard, one of the few bits of architecture that wasn’t completely deteriorated. 

“We were never not speaking,” she replied, squinting toward the battlements, where soldiers were already walking the ramparts. 

“I don’t count all the muttered obscenities and name-calling to be ‘speaking.’ But, I’ll rephrase anyway. Are we being civil again?” Ariel slanted a brow-raised glance at him and he amended. “As civil as a couple cast offs like us can be, of course.”

She turned her gaze back toward the wall, lifting a hand to shade her vision. “For the moment, I suppose. I probably won’t take anything you ever hand me that comes in a flask again.”

“A smart decision. I’m a wily bastard, after all.” Varric paused as they came to the foot of the stairs, tucking his thumbs into his sash and following her gaze. “My friend isn’t here yet, Firefly. He’s good, but he’s not quite _that_ good.”

“What a thing to say about our mother,” she quipped with a grin. One look at the dwarf told her that he wasn’t going to give anything away. When he wanted, he was capable of closing up as hard and as tough as the stone that his people were said to have sprung from. “How long?” She asked, dodging around a cart that was being pulled through the gates and towed off in the direction of the side doors that lead to the kitchens. 

“If the weather is clear and the bandits thin, maybe a few days. But, when do things ever go that well?” Varric appeared from the other side of the cart as it rolled by. He was now tipping his hand back and forth like a pendulum, where a shiny red apple that hadn’t been there before now danced up and down across his fingers. Wily bastard, indeed.

Several days, perhaps a week or more, seemed a long time to wait for the information that she was so eager to gain; information that could turn the tide of this war in their favor. As it turned out, though, there were plenty of matters that seemed to require her immediate and singular attention. Like Cole; who had remained with them ever since his appearance, seemingly out of nowhere, just before the attack. With things settled down, it quickly became apparent that he was far more unique than anyone had at first suspected. 

He wasn’t a mage, but the things he could do could only be magical. He wasn’t human, yet he had not possessed the human body he wore. That was a conundrum that made her head hurt. Vivienne was convinced that he was a demon and encouraged her to send him away. Her first instinct was to agree. Wouldn’t it be clever of Corypheus to put an agent in their midst by sending a ‘friendly’ spirit to warn them and thus staging his own narrow defeat at Haven? But, when she spoke to Cole, looked into his face, she saw only his sincere desire to ‘help the hurt,’ and something in her stirred. She couldn’t bring herself to banish him. 

If Ariel had expected Vivienne to pout with spectacularly brazen flamboyance over being ignored in the matter, she found herself surprised by the reality. Indeed, Vivienne shrugged it off with such elegant ease that it might have been no more annoyance than having to request a new cup of tea when a fly found its way into the first. The Imperial Enchanter soon turned her attention to Ariel who, apparently, required a lot of work. The Inquisitor was a little overwhelmed at what a huge project she seemed to be, not only for Vivienne, but for Leliana and Josephine as well. The three of them took the first opportunity to drag Ariel into the privacy of a sprawling, cavernous chamber adjacent to the entry of the Undercroft. 

“What are we doing here?” she asked, gaze shifting from one woman to the other. The three of them seemed to loom ominously over her and it wasn’t only because of their superior height… in Vivienne’s case, with those ridiculous shoes that she insisted on wearing, very superior.

Josephine was rifling through some paperwork, as usual, but her response was prompt and matter-of-fact. “These are to be your personal living quarters, Inquisitor. I thought you should be involved in selecting their décor. I have a few names here, of some of the finest craftsmen in both Orlais and Ferelden, and some fabric selections that you ought to look at. You, of course, are at liberty to select any colors you want, but I would caution you to make note of the combinations that represent certain notable families and organizations so that you don’t inadvertently show favor to one over another.”

Ariel could only stare. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and stared some more. After a moment, she burst into laughter. She laughed so hard that a kestrel who had built her nest in the rafters toppled several feet before fluttering her wings and, with a resentful screech, hurled herself out of the double doors sagging in their frame. The others didn’t join in; though, for a moment, with her own giggles echoing back at her, she thought she wasn’t the only one caught up in the mirth of the moment. When she finally managed to get a hold of herself, however, the three of them were still watching her with aloof expressions that, despite their differing features and coloring, were mirror images of one another. “You…you’re not serious!” They were serious. “Maker’s blood, this is insane! My house in Denerim wasn’t _half_ this size! We could fit another fifty soldiers in here, easily. Surely there’s a more useful way to use all of this space.”

Utility didn’t seem to concern them. Skyhold was big enough to support their burgeoning numbers, even with more flocking to their banner every day. This, they said, was about making a statement, the bolder the better. She’d been born in rags, now she would lavish in quarters worthy of her elevation. It would say something to the nobles that the ambassador planned to host in the coming weeks in order to bolster their prestige and their influence enough to warrant in invitation to the Peace Talks that would be taking place at the Winter Palace. What Ariel saw as needless, indulgent extravagance was a proclamation to them of her readiness to test her mettle on the battlefield of the ballroom, where everything was about wearing shoes so fashionable that nobody noticed when you stomped all over their toes. 

Maker have mercy on her. 

Everything about the Grand Game made her head spin. It was an opulent tangle so intricate and paradoxical that she couldn’t even find a pattern to follow. Quiet acknowledgement was good, but direct culpability was bad. So they should be aware of the moves she made, but should never see her make them. 

“Everyone wants a beautiful garden, but nobody wants to be seen with dirt under their fingernails,” Leliana said, undoubtedly thinking herself helpful. What did gardens have to do with assassinating your rivals?

Ariel, who had never once, in the entire twenty-seven years that she had been alive, given thought to the state of her fingernails, gave a groan. She was slumped across her desk, with her head buried in her arms. Her hair, grown out past her shoulders, by now, was disheveled, sticking up at odd angles after she had spent so much time tugging at it in frustration. She made a conscious effort not to do so, now, after Vivienne had threatened to shave her head. _’You can’t have bad hair days when you don’t have hair.’_ Ariel thought that if a certain dusky-skinned, voluptuous mage happened to fall into the next rift they found, she wouldn’t ever have to worry about her hair again. 

“Don’t Orlesians have gardeners anyway?” Ariel grumbled. 

“It’s a turn of phrase,” Leliana responded. 

“Oh, is it fashionable to turn phrases?” Ariel’s prim tone could not mask her bitterness. 

The Spymaster was quick, though. She’d been playing these games for a very long time. Now, she gave a deceptively sweet smile. “Only if someone else hasn’t turned it first.”

Was it possible to grind your teeth flat? “I hate you. You’re a bad person.”

“Now, darling, cats are very unfashionable, particularly when they scratch at the drapes.” Vivienne intoned. 

Ariel tilted her head to glare over at the silken-clad mage, who lounged there elegantly on the chaise, examining her nails; which were undoubtedly perfect. “What does that even _mean?_ ”

“What she means,” Josephine piped up, “Is that just because you don’t like something does not give you cause to tear it down so inelegantly. Finesse, Inquisitor, you must maintain your composure.”

“If you’re talking about those horrendous velvet monstrosities that you had imported from the plains…” drapes which Ariel had indeed torn from the wall with vicious fervor, before offering the cloth up to be used as blankets; for the men or the horses made no difference to her. Ariel stared at Josephine, who had been mortified at the time. At the moment, the Antivan was merely looking back at her serenely. “That’s not what you’re talking about, is it?” Or was it? Honestly, she didn’t know anymore. Every time she thought she had figured it out, they pulled the ugly Orlesian rug out from under her feet and sent her sprawling again. Once, she’d thought they’d been talking about the hedges in the garden for an entire twenty minutes before she had realized they were discussing Blackwall’s beard and whether or not it suggested similar growth in other places. 

Apparently, it was fashionable to speak of lewd topics so long as they were disguised as something else. 

“Inquisitor,” a deep voice called from below, “Are you busy? I have some business-“

“Maker, _yes!_ I’m coming!” Ariel flew from her desk so quickly that she scattered all the papers that had been stacked there, various plans for renovation, decisions she had to make regarding the main tower, the gardens, the courtyard and the like.

There was a rough sound; a man clearing his throat. “I can come back later if you- oof!” Ariel didn’t even bother with the stairs. Maybe it was rebellious, of her, but after being scolded all day about the propriety, she wanted to do something decidedly improper. So, she vaulted over the railing – it was a short drop to the next platform – and landed right on top of Cullen, sending them both hurtling backward. They landed in a tangle of arms and legs, with the poor Commander taking the brunt of the fall. 

Their noses brushed when Ariel lifted her head. The way that her chest was heaving against his, surely meant he could feel the rapid flutter of her heart. Her face flamed hot. The rest of her suddenly felt hot too. There was something… something a person should say, in this sort of situation. But, she couldn’t quite remember what it was. His eyes gazed up at her, catching a shaft of light that spilled down from a hole in one of the boarded windows. “I didn’t realize you had golden flecks in your eyes,” she breathed. Whatever she was _supposed_ to say, Ariel was certain it wasn’t even remotely close to that. 

Suddenly, Ariel was aware of every inch of her that was pressed against the hard, long lines of the Commander, whose hands had come to rest on the small of her back. It was a painful, but somehow not unpleasant awareness. At least, until Josephine called down to them and Ariel suddenly remembered their audience. 

“We’re fine!” she glanced over her shoulder, then back to Cullen, their noses still brushing, “You’re fine, aren’t you?”

“Mmm.. what?” He blinked at her, hands tightening on her back for just a moment. Then he looked over her shoulder, where the three women could be seen in silhouette, leaning over the railing to look down at them. “I’m fine,” he said in a growl, releasing her. There was a look of near pain written across his face that concerned her, though.

Apologizing profusely, Ariel scrambled off of him and offered her hand, as if she could ever hope to heave him to his feet. He gently pushed it away and rose on his own.

“What was all that about?” Cullen asked. His face was a bit flushed. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him too bad by falling on him.

“Gardens. Or drapes. Maybe body hair. Your guess is as good as mine, I’m not fluent in Orlesian-Snobbery.” The great entrance hall was lined with scaffolding, where carpenters and stone masons were hard at work renovating the old fortress in a way that would preserve and honor its original architects. She still hadn’t gotten around to sifting through all the sketches and design samples for heraldry, glass work, or general décor yet. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

He blinked, undoubtedly trying to work out what she had just said. Then he shook his head and went back to business. He was a smart man. “Right. The specialists have just arrived. I thought you would like to greet them personally.”

“I would greet Corypheus’ archdemon personally, if it got me out of a lecture regarding how to bring down the esteem of an entire noble house by placing my pinky finger precisely just so when I sip my tea. Where are they?” 

Understanding came into his eyes and he gave a sympathetic grin. “Assisting the surgeon. We offered them quarters, but they insisted on waiting until after they had met with you.” There was a heavy pause, during which his grin became tight, strained before finally slipping to give way for a worried expression that softened Cullen’s sculpted features in a way that was new and fascinating. “Inquisitor, I’ve been meaning to… that is…” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I owe you an apology.”

Since that morning in camp, neither of them had brought up the harsh words that they had exchanged on the hilltop. They had discussed guard rotations, living arrangements, emergency drills and all manner of safe, comfortable topics. She hadn’t minded that. She had never been particularly good at making apologies. That she was the one who ought to be sorry was a solid fact, in her mind. So his words now had her blinking at him for a dumbfounded moment before she remembered her voice.. 

“You’re not serious. Cullen, you don’t owe me anything.”

“I was out of line. It isn’t my place to-“

Without thinking, she reached out and put a hand on his chest. He fell quiet immediately. “If not your place than whose?”

“You are the Inquisitor. I am your Commander, but I do not command you.” His hand came to cover hers before she could let it drop. “I let my fear rule me. It is something I have struggled with for a long time and that morning, it got the best of me.”

Ariel tilted her head, “I am the Inquisitor, though I wasn’t at the time –“

He gave a half-hearted snort. “You didn’t have the title, at the time. But you’ve been in charge almost since you stepped out of the Fade at Haven.”

“Then the Maker is merciful indeed that we didn’t meet with even greater disaster. That’s not my point. I’m the Inquisitor, but I’m still human… elven… whatever! Before the Conclave, I was one of those little people that Sera always harps on about. I served wine and polished shoes. I’m completely out of my depth here. I have to rely on your experience, all of you. That night… I was being reckless, and stupid. I didn’t want to look weak but I could have put us all in danger. You were right to put me in my place.”

He gaped at her for a moment before shaking his head. “Lady Inquisitor, I don’t think I will ever be able to figure you out.”

She giggled. “Oh, good! Those lessons on Orlesian Game-playing must be paying off after all!”

One of Cullen’s messengers hurried toward them, undoubtedly with some urgent report to relay. Ariel nodded and excused herself, taking her leave in order to go meet with the specialists that had been called in. The events at Redcliffe Castle had somehow shaken something loose inside of her, some block that had kept her from accessing her abilities unless she was emotionally charged. Anger always made it particularly effective. Perhaps it was merely that the memory of what was at stake enraged her to such an extent that it was always there, in the background. Either way, her magic hadn’t failed since she had come back from the future. This new reliability opened new possibilities, and so experts in different specific fields of magical study had been called in to help her along. 

With any luck, they wouldn’t be as confusing or obscure as the three vipers she had left behind in her quarters. 

“Hello! Welcome to Skyhold,” she said cheerfully to the white haired mage.

“Hello. Yes. I am Your Trainer.”

An hour later, Ariel thought she might have to let Vivienne shave her head after all. Your Trainer was a fascinating but eccentric creature. The other two specialists were easy to understand, but Ariel was best suited to the abilities of a Rift Mage. Be it the Anchor, or lingering effects that clung to her after having physically been in the Fade, she was already uniquely equipped to draw on that power, to shape it. So, it seemed, she would have to deal with yet another tutor that made little sense at the best of times. 

A deep voice interrupted her brooding. “Inquisi-“

“Bull,” Ariel said sweetly, “If the next words out of your mouth don’t include ‘drink’ and ‘now’ I swear on every drop of that swill you guzzle that I will punch the mustache right off your face.”

The Qunari squinted his eye at her, trying to gauge whether or not she was serious. She met his stare evenly. Finally, Bull seemed to come to a decision. Too bad for him it was the wrong one. “It’s not swi--“

Ariel punched him in the face.

\------------------------------

“Where did you get that?” Cullen crossed his arms and watched the Horse Master rubbing his hands together, obviously very pleased with himself. .

“The herd of them sort of fell into line behind us as we made the trip to Skyhold. I think the brontos and the horses gave them the impression that we were also migrating. Larger numbers means a higher chance of survival.” Dennet shrugged, “This fellow was probably born a few seasons ago. He’s not experienced enough yet to have his own herd to look after, but too old to travel with his mother any longer without seeming a threat to the dominant male. So, I started setting out food for him and when he trusted me enough, I bridled him and brought him with us.”

The fellow Dennet referred to, was a massive red-coated hart, with a rack of antlers at least as wide as Cullen’s arms. He appeared agitated. He kept snorting and pawing at the straw-carpeted ground, or testing the stability of the door with those wicked tines. The way the hinges whined made Cullen nervous. 

“I thought,” Dennet went on, “I might train him up for the Inquisitor’s mount.”

“You _what?_ ” His voice came out harsher than he intended as he cast a startled glance at the other man. 

Dennet raised his hands defensively. “Look, I know he seems a bit wild now. Give me a month, and I’ll have him gentle enough for it. A hart’s stride is different than a horse’s. Longer, smoother. I thought it might be easier on her bony little frame.”

“Ariel isn’t bony,” Cullen said without thinking. How could he think, when he was remembering the way she had felt pressed against him? She was slender, perhaps, but there had been no mistaking the soft, if subtle, swells of her body. Or the mutinous way his body had responded to feeling them plastered against him. “Definitely not bony.” 

The dark skinned man gave him an odd look, but shrugged. “Have it your way. All I’m saying is this is the kind of seat she needs. She won’t come back bruised and crabby every time. Not to mention, a beast like this can be trained to offer a bit of protection if she happens into a fight she wasn’t expecting. Wolves, bears, Venatori… those antlers can skewer anything that tries to lunge for her throat.”

That sounded good to Cullen. If the man could execute his plan, that was. Currently, Cullen didn’t think the hart would tolerate being approached, let alone mounted. Still, if anyone could manage it, the Horse Master could. Ariel, though she had improved, was still an abysmal rider. The thought of the way she bounced around in the saddle made him wince… and then flush, when an unbidden image of her, those sweet subtle curves bare as she moved over him in similar fashion flashed through his mind. It was a quick flash, no more within his control than his heartbeat, there and gone, painted across the backs of his eyelids in the time it took him to blink. Maker, he was a wicked man.

“Commander?”

“Hmm?” Cullen glanced away from the hart to find Dennet looking at him quizzically. Waiting, Cullen realized abruptly, for him to respond. “If you can break him in enough that he doesn’t break our Inquisitor, then by all means, be my guest.”

A soft whining from within the barn drew his attention. Turning away from the stall and the less than content occupant within, Cullen followed the sound. There, nestled in the corner, curled up on a bed of straw and worn fabric, a mabari hound looked up at him with huge sorrowful eyes. “Is that…”

“Heartbreaking isn’t it? She’s been tethered to my heel since that blizzard. Don’t know why. Always heard the war hounds followed their masters into death,” Dennet followed Cullen into the barn, wiping his bald head with a cloth from his pocket. “I call her Fawn.”

Cullen knelt and held out a loose fist. The dog shifted on her little bed, sniffing his hand before nuzzling her face beneath it so he could scratch between her ears. “I am sorry about your master,” he said quietly to the hound. She gave a soft whine of acknowledgment, “But I am grateful you didn’t follow him. You brought that rescue party to us. Were it not for you, we might still be buried there. You have my gratitude.” 

“Andraste’s blushing butt cheeks; it’s actually true. You Southerners do converse with your dogs. I always thought it was just our way of expressing your savagery and general lack of sophistication.”

“Make fun all you like,” Cullen retorted, rising to his feet and turning as Dorian swept into the barn with all of his usual swagger. “I’ve met some people who weren’t half as smart as a good war hound.”

“Smart enough not to speak,” Dennet agreed, fishing a small sugar cube from his pocket and tossing it to Fawn. Cullen wondered how many of those she was eating a day. She was looking a bit thick even for a breed as stout and hardy as the mabari. “My wife always says the wind howls loudest in an empty cavern. Not for the hounds though. More than hot air brewing between those ears, hey sweetheart?” The mabari gave an appreciative huff and lay her head down on her big front paws.

“That was very nearly clever. Well done, ser!” Dorian applauded blithely, not seeming to mind the implication of an insult to his own intellect. Cullen thought it was one of his finer qualities; the ability to laugh at himself without malice. “Now, if you’re finished, I need to borrow the Commander for just a few moments. Inquisitor’s business, you understand.”

Cullen blinked in confusion. What business could have come up between now and an hour ago when she had left him? “What is it?” he demanded as he followed Dorian back outside. “Has something happened?” Though the specialists were reputed experts in their fields, there was always the chance, when so many mages were together, that something might go wrong. A coil of anxiety twisted in his stomach but he kept it in check. “Is the Inquisitor alright?” She had to be alright. She’d been perfect when last she had left him to meet with the trainers. 

“Oh, I imagine she’s in something of a sour mood. But Varric and Sera are working to fill her up with enough good spirit to drown it out. I’m about to go and join them, myself, as soon as I’ve passed along what I’ve come to pass along.” 

“And that would be what, exactly?”

“I know that you train with our Inquisitor of a morning, most mornings. Tomorrow, however, I’m afraid that she won’t be able to make it.”

Now there was a different feeling in his stomach, a slow sinking that was far from pleasant. Since he had first begun training Ariel, she had improved by leaps and bounds. He enjoyed the challenge. He’d always been taught to counter mages, to fight them. Now, working in reverse, teaching her how to watch for the very moves he’d been taught in order to take them out was a new experience. Seeing her learn how to defend herself, how to recognize threats when they came at her, gave him a special sense of pride. Not to mention that satisfied glint in those bright green eyes of hers when she mastered a new combination…

Cullen tried not to wear his disappointment on his face. “Has something happened?”

Dorian’s grin was full of wicked laughter. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it, the way she was swearing. Delicate little thing broke her hand.”

Cullen almost snorted on reflex. Ariel was no more delicate than she was bony. A willow wasn’t frail just because it bent in the breeze. Then he winced as the rest of what Dorian had said sank in. “How did she manage that?” If one of the specialists had hurt her…

It couldn’t be too serious. Dorian, who was, in his way, more protective of the Inquisitor than any of her other companions, gave a mirth-filled chuckle. “Why, on Iron Bull’s face, naturally!”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garret Hawke observes a few of the Inquisitor's Inner Circle before heading to Crestwood. Ariel intends to follow, but first there are diplomatic duties that must be mucked through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I finally managed to post this chapter. I'm so sorry for the gross negligence as of late. Real life kinda jumped up and bit me a little. It really diminished my ability to focus. That, on top of the fact that this chapter was really difficult for me to get through - for some reason, it just didn't have the same flow as some of the others - and... well, anyway, here it is! 
> 
> From now on, I will try to impose a deadline on myself to turn over a new chapter at least once every ten days or so, but I can't make an absolute promise on that. Thank you all for being patient and I hope I haven't lost any who were enjoying the story and simply couldn't stand the wait.

Garret Hawke stood, arms crossed, against the wall, listening to the raised voices that were streaming down from the second story. He’d considered going to Varric’s rescue, when the irate Nevarran woman had stormed past him, damn near stomping over his toes, in order to drag the dwarf inside. When he had realized that they were arguing about _him_ he had made himself comfortable in order to listen, instead. The woman could only be the Seeker that Varric had written him about, the one who had been searching for him. He’d assumed that the Divine’s Right Hand had been hunting him in order to bring him to justice for what... well, he supposed for what Justice had done. Or, rather, Vengeance. He was beyond surprised to hear that the intention had actually been to ask him to lead the Inquisition. Not that he would have agreed, of course

He would have to remember to thank Varric for keeping him out of that particular mess. Or, at least, he would have to thank Varric for trying. With all the things that were coming to light concerning Corypheus and his Red-Lyrium crazed horde of former Templars there really had never been any hope of keeping free of this mess. After all, he was partially responsible for it. Despite what Aveline sometimes said, Hawke didn’t actively seek chaos… but he did clean up his messes. 

A third voice rose over the other two, causing Hawke’s head to lift. If he didn’t miss his mark, that was the Inquisitor herself. Whatever she said caused Cassandra and Varric to lower their volume. A moment later, the dwarf appeared, muttering under his breath. He slanted a glance up at the human, when he realized Hawke was there. “There you are, you disloyal bastard. I don’t suppose you had any intention of coming to my aid.”

“Absolutely none at all,” Hawke confirmed cheerfully, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “So, that’s the infamous Cassandra Pentaghast. She’s…”

“Enough to make Rivaini seem like a kitten?”

Hawke chuckled. “I was going to say she’s very pretty for a Nevarran.”

“One day, old friend, we will have to have a discussion about your dangerous attraction to lethal women.”

Hawke snorted, pushing off of the wall and falling into step beside the dwarf. One of the smaller buildings in this village-sized, mountain-top estate had the distinctive glowing windows and bustling murmur of a tavern. “You know, I always thought that my ascensions was impressive; from Gamlen’s three room shack to the family estate in Hightown, complete with my own underground dwarven merchant and Lyrium bender… literally. But, I’ve never had my own tavern named after me.”

“Speaking of those miscreants, where are Bodhan and Sandal? They were with the Hero of Ferelden, and then you for several years… I’d have thought that word of the Inquisition would have attracted them like flies to shit,” Varric mused, pushing open the door and leading the way inside. Conversation stopped at a few of the tables, with heads swiveling about to catch a glimpse of the Champion of Kirkwall, while it increased in others, at a lower volume and far more rapid pace. 

Hawke shrugged it off. People usually reacted to him in some manner. At least, nobody here had yet tried to stick a blade in his ear for what Anders and his eerie Fade-born tagalong had done. He slumped into a seat in a corner table and lifted a finger to one of the passing serving girls. “Haven’t heard much from him since he and the boy headed to Orlais to meet with the empress. I was half expecting to find them here in the thick of things myself.” After all, the two dwarves had a reputation for inserting themselves into the path of those who mucked around in history, himself included. He would bet every sovereign he had that Sandal would be able to give them some mind-bending insight on the Fade rifts, if only he could articulate anything beyond expressing his enthusiasm for enchantments. 

The pint was placed at his elbow, but he hadn’t taken more than a sip before a mantled shadow fell over him. Tipping his head back, he found himself looking up into a familiar face. “Ah, Knight Captain,” he greeted, then shook his head, “Forgive me, Commander. I was planning to pay you a visit before I headed for Crestwood in the morning.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait until morning,” he cast a glance about, then lowered himself into a chair at the table, waving away the offer of a mug of his own. “I am not a Templar any longer –“

“I did hear that you decided to hang up the dress. A fine choice.”

“It was _not_ a dress. Not that you have any room to talk. Aren’t you the man who actually wore a velvet gown to the Viscount’s birthday salon?” Cullen snorted, his lips twitching. 

“Ah that. Of all my stories, I was hoping that one, in particular, would have been lost to memory. At any rate, I only wore the gown because I lost a bet. You wore one for years of your own free will.”

“It wasn’t… never mind. As I was saying, I am no longer a Templar and the justice of the Order is no longer my concern. What is my concern is the wellbeing of the Inquisitor and so I have to ask… this Warden that you are taking her to meet. Is it –“

“It isn’t Anders, Cullen. In fact, my contact isn’t a mage at all.”

The Commander visibly relaxed, relief evident in his expression. A moment later, he tensed again, rising to his feet as a small figure appeared from somewhere upstairs, causing Hawke to blink in confusion. All the upper rooms in this place must be interconnected somehow. “Inquisitor,” the Commander greeted in a voice that had Hawke leaning forward with interest. 

“You weren’t in your office,” Ariel observed, “How am I supposed to find you when you go wandering off?”

Cullen grinned, “My most humble apologies, my lady. It shan’t happen again.”

Ariel rolled her green eyes. She didn’t seem to notice that Hawke and Varric were sitting right there. The former sent the dwarf an inquisitive glance, but Varric was smiling quietly to himself, leaning back in his chair with his fingertips steepled together in front of his chin. "Perhaps I ought to ask you to wear a bell." Ariel continued, “At any rate, I wanted to discuss our travel plans with you. I know we have access to a few trade roads, but I am hopelessly lost in terms of figuring out which ones will get us to Crestwood fastest.”

“I happen to kno-mphh hmphh, wmmm?” Hawke’s statement was cut off by a dwarven hand covering his mouth firmly. 

“Of course, I- Maker’s Breath!“

Hawke almost toppled out of his chair as a figure appeared, crouching on the table, wearing raggedy faded clothing and the widest, floppiest hat that he had ever seen. Beneath it, he caught a glimpse of straw-like blonde hair covering over-large blue eyes. In a soft voice, he began muttering about a man whose skin glistened in the light, who wore the dawn as a crown. Ariel suddenly looked as though she were trying to swallow a boot. Her pale skin flushed rosy and pink. 

“Cole! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” She lunged forward, dragging the lanky boy off of the table and pushing him toward the door. “I’ll come find you later. Cole and I need to talk about turnips!” She couldn’t seem to tow the strange creature away fast enough. 

Cullen stood there a moment, staring after the odd little pair, a strange, pensive smile on his features. “I’ll be in my office,” he murmured, almost as if to himself. Then he cleared his throat, scrubbed at the back of his neck, and strode out of the tavern without another word. Hawke plucked Varric’s hand away from his mouth and picked up his mug again. “Is it just me, or is the Commander… what is the word I’m looking for here?”

“Completely smitten?” Varric supplied, gray eyes a twinkle with amusement. “Yes. She is too, but I wouldn’t go telling either one of them that. They’d never believe you.”

“Uh huh,” Hawke sipped his mead contemplatively, “So, that scarecrow of a boy is…”

“Cole. Like the rest of us, he is a complicated little ball of weird… Literally showed up on our doorstep. Has an eerie resemblance to Blondie, with a little more crazy thrown in.”

Hawke pondered for a moment, trying to decide whether he really wanted or needed to know any more than that. Varric, more than most, understood the complexity of who Anders was, what he had done. He, more than most, had reason to be suspicious of someone who displayed an ‘eerie resemblance,’ yet, he looked easy enough. Finally, Hawke lifted his mug and tapped it against Varric’s. “No wonder you feel so at home, here.”

Varric merely smiled.

\-------------

Hawke left the next morning, full of energy and determination, in spite of the circles beneath his eyes. Still, his step was light and his gaze on the journey ahead as he painted the trademark red streak across the bridge of his nose – to pull the glare of the sun away from his eyes, he said – and set out with the Scout Harding and her team. Ariel wished that she was going with them, but there were matters that had to be attended before she could leave. The scaffolding in the main hall was still erected, with masons and stone workers scaling them all day to make repairs, but the visiting dignitaries that seemed to be growing in number every day were more interested in the dais and the throne upon it. 

Ariel wasn’t sure what to think of it. Josephine had commissioned its construction from the single finest sculptor in Orlais, who seemed to charge for his discretion as much as for his work. The seat of the construct was simple stone, but the back was what drew the eye. It was a depiction of the conflagration that had sent the Lady of Light to the Maker’s side. She stood, her face upturned, expression one of severe anguish, amidst the heart of flames that had been cast in a bronze and gold alloy. Considering the way that Leliana and Josephine were playing up Ariel’s role as the Herald of Andraste, she supposed she should be glad that it wasn’t a full-sized rendition of the Sunburst Throne. The last thing she wanted, amidst all the speculation, were rumors that she had her eye on the hat of the Divine. Such blatant blasphemy likely _would_ see her sharing Andraste’s fate. That thought made her shudder as she took in the ornamentation of the throne.

The idea of judging anyone, of passing sentence, made her stomach churn a little. Who was she but a mouse from the city who had only found herself In this position by some freak accident. She didn’t voice any of her discomfort though as she climbed the steps and slowly lowered herself into the seat provided. It was bleeding uncomfortable but she didn’t mind. She didn’t intend to spend much time in it at any rate. 

It was only the memory of how sheepish she had felt that afternoon, laughing herself to tears over the ‘importance’ of her choice of décor for her private quarters while Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne stood staring at her impassively that kept her from bursting into a fit of giggles at the first judgment that was brought before her. For all that these Orlesian dignitaries liked to call their political workings the ‘Grand Game,’ they sure seemed to take everything very seriously. There was a scandalized murmur that spread through those gathered that made Ariel feel like squirming. Execution? For hurling a goat at one of the outer walls? Truth be told, it sounded more like an adolescent prank than a statement made for a life lost, but who was she to question Avvar tradition? For a moment, however, she wondered if those masks that they wore were to help them keep from betraying their mirth in times like these. 

Ariel didn’t have the man executed. Instead, she had him and his people outfitted and turned them loose on Tevinter. They could decorate as many Magisterium homes with goat’s blood as they saw fit, as far as she was concerned. And it was worth it to see the horrified expression on Gereon Alexius’ face when she made her ruling, as he was brought up behind the tall barbaric looking man for his own judgment. That one was tougher. Everything in her seemed to catch on fire at the very sight of him, at the memory of what he had done, what he would have done and her first instinct was to call for his immediate death. Well, that was her second instinct; her first was to fly from that throne and attack him herself. She gripped the arms of her seat until the knuckles turned white, as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded in the midst of a hurricane. 

She had just opened her mouth to pass judgment, when Leliana swept into the hall. Those gray eyes met Ariel’s over the heads of those gathered and, very subtly, she shook her head and then lifted a rolled piece of parchment in her hand. Ariel motioned her forward, accepting the document and carefully opening it. She read it twice, before reading one section aloud. 

“Considering the delicate nature of what transpired at Redcliffe Castle during our meeting with the Magister Alexius and the rebel mages of Ferelden, I felt that it was my duty to personally and expediently make it known to you that Lord Felix Alexius was extended an offer of conscription into the ranks of the Gray Wardens. He underwent the Joining only just this past Tuesday. He turned a lovely shade of purple and did an impressive imitation of a fish stranded on the bank of the river. Believe me when I say he handled it with more endurance than many of the Order. He survived the Joining and does not show any immediate inclinations to succumb to the Taint.”

Rolling the parchment up again, she tapped it to her chin. “So there it is, Magister. You owe the life of your son to the very people you were seeking to destroy. It’s funny how things turn out sometimes, isn’t it?” 

Alexius blinked several times. His eyes seemed very shiny to Ariel. “He’s alive… my boy. I didn’t think it possible. I worked so hard…”

“The magic you constructed in your work was theoretically impossible, Alexius” Ariel went on. “Understand, I do not condone any part of it. But the kind of mind that can concoct ways of making the impossible possible, is the kind of mind that the Inquisition can make use of.” She didn't want to make use of him, but Dorian had already approached her about the matter. Not only was Alexius a genius, for all that he was a misguided, corrupt fool who thought to play god, but he might have some insight on Corypheus that they couldn't pass up. She met the Necromancer's eyes briefly before she continued. "Your sentence is to serve, under guard, of course, on all things magical for the Inquisition."

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are welcome and appreciated. :)


End file.
